Otber BooKs 

by 
Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

EVERY-DAY THOUGHTS 

POEMS OF POWER 

MAURINE 

POEMS OF PASSION 

POEMS OF PLEASURE 

KINGDOM OF LOVE AND OTHER 
POEMS 

THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD 

AN AMBITIOUS MAN 

AN ERRING WOMAN'S LOVE 

MEN, WOMEN AND EMOTIONS 



THREE WOMEN 




^^^5^ '^^s^^^c^^^^ ^ii*^-^^^-^ 



Three Women 



BY 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 



Author of *' Poems of Passion," *'Maurine," "Poems of 

Pleasure," "How Salvator Won," "Custer and Other 

Poems," "Men, Women and Emotions," 

"The Beautiful Land of Nod," Etc. 



CHICAGO-NEW YORK 
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 

Publishers 



TKrT_iBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Cowpe Received 

iUL 30 1902 

Copyright entry 

CLASS CC XXa No. 

COPY B. 






Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1897. by 

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Entered at Stationers' Hall, London. 



All Rights Reserved. 



.Madp.iQ thgUni,tpdvStatfSS. 









My love is young, so young; 

Young IS her cheek, and her throat. 
And life is a song to be sung 

With love the word for each note. 

Young is her cheek and her throat; 

Her eyes have the smile o' May. 
And love is the word for each note 

In the song of my life to-day. 

Her eyes have the smile o' May; 

Her heart is the heart of a dove, 
And the song of my life to-day 

Is love, beautiful love. 

Her heart is the heart of a dove, 
Ah, would it but fly to my breast 

Where love, beautiful love. 
Has made it a downy nest. 

Ah, would she but fly to my breast, 
My love who is young, so young; 

I have made her a downy nest 
And life is a song to be sung. 



THREE WOMEN. 
I. 

A dull little station, a man with the eye r 

Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by; 

A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun, 

The curtain goes up, and our play is begun. 

The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife, 

Which always is billed for the theatre Life. 

It runs on forever, from year unto year, 

With scarcely a change when new actors appear. 

It is old as the world is — far older in truth, 

For the world is a crude little planet of youth. 

And back in the eras before it was formed, 

The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed. 

Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls 
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls 



10 Zbvcc Wiomcn, 



In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain 

Was wholly intent on the incoming train. 

That great one eyed monster puffed out its black 

breath, 
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on 

death, 
Paused scarcely a moment, and then sped away, 
And two actors more now enliven our play. 

A graceful young woman with eyes like the morn. 
With hair like the tassels which hang from the corn. 
And a face that might serve as a model for Peace, 
Moved lightly along, smiled and bowed to Maurice, 
Then was lost in the circle of friends waiting near. 
A discord of shrill nasal tones smote the ear. 
As they greeted their comrade and bore her from sight. 
(The ear oft is pained while the eye feels delight 
In the presence of women throughout our fair land: 
God gave them the graces which win and command, 
But the devil, who always in mischief rejoices. 
Slipped into their teachers and ruined their voices.) 



Zbvcc THaomen. n 



There had stepped from the train just behind Mabel Lee 
A man whose deportment bespoke him to be 
A child of good fortune. His mien and his air 
Were those of one all unaccustomed to care. 
His brow was not vexed with the gold seeker's worry, 
His manner was free from the national hurry. 
Repose marked his movements. Yet gaze in his eye, 
And you saw that this calm outer man was a lie; 
And you knew that deep down in the depths of his 

breast 
There dwelt the unmerciful imp of unrest. 

He held out his hand; it was clasped with a will 

In both the firm palms of Maurice Somerville. 

"Well, Reese, my old Comrade;" "Ha, Roger, my boy," 

They cried in a breath, and their eyes gemmed with joy 

(Which but for their sex had been set in a tear). 

As they walked arm in arm to the trap waiting near. 

And drove down the shining shell roadway which 

wound 
Through forest and meadow, in search of the Sound. 



tTbree llClomen. 



Roger: 

I smell the salt water — that perfume which starts 
The blood from hot brains back to world withered 

hearts; 
You may talk of the fragrance of flower filled fields, 
You may sing of the odors the Orient yields, 
You may tell of the^health laden scent of the pine, 
But give me the subtle salt breath of the brine.. 
Already I feel lost emotions of youth 
Steal back to my soul in their sweetness and truth; 
Small wonder the years leave no marks on your 

face. 
Time's scythe gathers rust in this idyllic place. 
You must feel like a child on the Great Mother's breast. 
With the Sound like a nurse watching over your rest? 

Maurice: 
There is beauty and truth in your quaint simile, 
I love the Sound more than the broad open sea. 
The ocean seems always stern, masculine, bold, 
The Sound is a woman, now warm, and now cold. 



^bree Tttaomcn 13 



It rises in fury and threatens to smite, 
Then falls at your feet with a coo of delight ; 
Capricious, seductive, first frowning, then smiling, 
And always, whatever its mood is, beguiling. 
Look, now you can see it, bright beautiful blue. 
And far in the distance there loom into view 
The banks of Long Island, full thirty miles off; 
A sign of wet weather to-morrow. Don't scoff! 
We people who chum with the waves and the wind 
Know more than all wise signal bureaus combined. 

But come, let us talk of yourself — for of me 

There is little to tell which your eyes may not see. 

Since we finished at College (eight years, is it not.-*) 

I simply have dreamed away life in this spot. 

With my dogs and my horses, a book and a pen, 

And a week spent in town as a change now and then. 

Fatigue for the body, disease for the mind. 

Are all that the city can give me, I find. 

Yet once in a while there is wisdom I hold 

In leaving the things that are dearer than gold, — 



Zbxcc Women, 



Loved people and places — if only to learn 

The exquisite rapture it is to return. 

But you, I remember, craved motion and change; 

You hated the usual, worshiped the strange. 

Adventure and travel I .know were your theme : 

Well, how did the reafl compare with the dream ? 

You have compassed the earth since we parted at 

Yale, 
Has life grown the richer, or only grown stale .? 

Roger: 
Stale, stale, my dear boy ! that's the story in short, 
1 am weary of travel, adventure and sport ; 
At home and abroad, in all climates and lands, 
y I have had what life gives when a full purse commands, 
I have chased after Pleasure, that phantom faced elf,/--- 
And lost the best part of my youth and myself. 
And now, barely thirty, I'm heart sick and blue ; 
Life seems like a farce scarcely worth sitting through. 
I dread its long stretch of dissatisfied years ; 
Ah ! wealth is not always the boon it appears, i^ 



tTbrce tKttomett. 15 

J _ 

And poverty lights not such ruinous fires 
As gratified appetites, tastes and desires. 
Fate curses, when letting us do as we please — 
It stunts a man's soul to be cradled in ease. 

Maurice: 
You are right in a measure ; the devil I hold 
Is oftener found in full coffers of gold 
Than in bare, empty larders. The soul, it is plain, 
Needs the conflicts of earth, needs the stress and the strain 
Of misfortune, to bring out its strength in this life — 
The Soul's calisthenics are sorrow and strife. 
But, Roger, what folly to stand in youth's prime 
And talk like a man who could father old Time. 
You have life all before you ; the past, — let it sleep ; 
Its lessons alone are the things you should keep, y 
There is virtue sometimes in our follies and sinnings ; 
Right lives very often have faulty beginnings. 
Results, and not causes, are what we should measure. 
You have learned precious truths in your search after 
pleasure. 



i6 Zbvcc Women, 



You have learned that a glow worm is never a star, 
You have learned that Peace builds not her temples 

afar. 
And now, dispossessed of the spirit to roam, 
You are finely equipped to establish a home. 
That's the one thing you need to lend savor to life, 
A home, and the love of a sweet hearted wife, 
And children to gladden the path to old age. 

Roger: 

Alas ! from life's book I have torn out that page ; 
I have loved many times and in many a fashion, 
Which means I know nothing at all of the passion. 
I have scattered my heart, here and there, bit by bit, 
'Til now there is nothing worth while left of it ; 
And, worse than all else, I have ceased to believe 
In the virtue and truth of the daughters of Eve. 
There's tragedy for you — when man's early trust 
In woman, experience hurls to the dust ! 

Maurice: 
Then you doubt your own mother ? 



^bree "UHomen. 17 



Roger: 

She passed heavenward 
Before I remember ; a saint, I have heard, 
While she lived ; there are scores of good women to-day. 
Temptation has chanced not to wander their way. 
The devil has more than his lordship can do, 
He can't make the rounds, so some women keep true. 

Maurice: 
You think then each woman, if tempted, must fall? 

Roger: 

Yes, if tempted her way — not one way suits them all — 
They have tastes in their sins as they have in their 

clothes, 
The tempter, of course, has to first study those. 
One needs to be flattered, another is bought ; 
One yields to caresses, by frowns one is caught. 
One wants a bold master, another a slave, 
With one you must jest, with another be grave. 
But swear you're a sinner whom she has reformed 
And the average feminine fortress is stormed. 



i8 trbree Mometi, 



In rescuing men from abysses of sin 

She loses her head — and herself tumbles in. 

The mind of a woman was shaped for a saint, 

But deep in her heart lies the devil's own taint. 

With plans for salvation her busy brain teems, 

Wh\le her heart longs in secret to know how sin 

seems. 
And if with this question unanswered she dies, 
Temptation came not in the right sort of guise. 
There's my estimate, Reese, of the beautiful sex; 
1 see by your face that my words wound and vex. 
But remember, my boy, I'm a man of the world. 

Maurice: 

Thank God, in th^^ vortex I have not been hurled. 
If experience breeds such a mental disease, 
I am glad I have lived with the birds and the bees. 
And the winds and the waves, and let people alone. 
So far in my life but good women I've known. 
My mother, my sister, a few valued friends — 
A teacher, a schoolmate, and there the list ends. 



Zbvcc llClomen. 19 



But to know one true woman in sunshine and gloom, 

From the zenith of life to the door of the tomb, 

To know her, as I knew that mother of mine, 

Is to know the whole sex and to kneel at the shrine. 

Roger: 
Then you think saint and woman synonymous terms? 

Maurice : 

Oh, no! we are all, men and women, poor worms 
Crawling up from the dampness and darkness of clay 
To bask in the sunlight and warmth of the day. ^ 
Some climb to a leaf and reflect its bright sheen. 
Some toil through the grass, and are crushed there 

unseen. 
Some sting if you touch them, and some evolve wings; 
Yet God dwells in each of the poor, groping things. 
They came from the Source — to the Source they go 

back; 
The sinners are those who have missed the true track. 
We can not judge women or men as a class. 
Each soul has its own distinct place in the mass. 



20 ^bree Momcn. 



There is no sex in sin; it were folly to swear 

All women are angels, but worse to declare 

All are devils as you do. You're morbid, my boy, 

In what you thought gold you have found much alloy 

And now you are doubting there is the true ore. 

But wait till you study my sweet simple store 

Of p^ure sterling treasures; just wait till you've been 

A few restful weeks, or a season, within 

The charmed circle of home life; then, Roger, you'll 

find 
These malarial mists clearing out of your mind. 
As a ship cuts the fog and is caught by the breeze, 
And swept through the sunlight to fair, open seas. 
So your heart will be caught and swept out to the 

ocean 
Of youth and youth's birthright of happy emotion. 
I'll wager my hat (it was new yesterday) 
That you'll fall in love, too, in a serious way. 
Our girls at Bay Bend are bewitching and fair, 
And Cupid lurks ever in salt Summer air. 



^bree THHomen. 



Roger: 

I question your gifts as a prophet, and yet, 
I confess in my travels I never have met 
A woman whose face so impressed me at sight. 
As one seen to-day; a mere girl, sweet and bright, 
Who entered the train quite alone and sat down 
Surrounded by parcels she'd purchased in town. 
A trim country lass, but endowed with the beauty 
Which makes a man think of his conscience and duty. 
Some women, you know, move us that way — God 

bless them. 
While others rouse only a thirst to possess them 
The face of the girl made me wish to be good, 
I went out and smoked to escape from the mood. 
When conscience through half a man's life has been 

sleeping 
What folly to wake it to worry and weeping! 

Maurice : 
The pessimist role is a modern day fad, 
But, Roger, you make a poor cynic, my lad. 



XLbvec Women. 



Your heart at the core is as sound as a nut, 

Though the wheels of your mind have dropped into 

the rut 
Of wrong thinking. You need a strong hand on the 

lever 
Of good common sense, and an earnest endeavor 
To pull yourself out of the slough of despond 
Back into the highway of peace just beyond. 
And now, here we are at Peace Castle in truth. 
And there stands its Chatelaine, sweet Sister Ruth, 
To welcome you, Roger ; you'll find a new type 
In this old-fashioned girl, who in years scarcely 

ripe, 
And as childish in heart as she is in her looks. 
And without worldly learning or knowledge of books, 
Yet in housewifely wisdom is wise as a sage. 
She is quite out of step with the girls of her age. 
For she has no ambition beyond the home sphere. 
Ruth, here's Roger Montrose, my comrade of dear 

College days. 



^bree Momen. 23 



The gray eyes of the girl of nineteen 
Looked into the face oft in fancy she'd seen 
When her brother had talked of his comrade at Yale. 
His stature was lower, his cheek was more pale 
Than her thought had portrayed him ; a look in his eye 
Made her sorry, she knew not for what nor knew why, 
But she longed to befriend him, as one needing aid. 
While he, gazing down on the face of the maid, 
Spoke some light words of greeting, the while his 

mind ran 
On her "points" good and bad ; for the average man 
When he looks at a woman proceeds first to scan her 
As if she were horse flesh, and in the same manner 
Notes all that is pleasing, or otherwise. So 
Roger gazed at Ruth Somerville. 

"Mouth like a bow 
And eyes full of motherhood ; color too warm, 
And too round in the cheek and too full in the form 
For the highest ideal of beauty and art. 
Domestic — that word is the cue to her part 



24 ^bree Women. 



She would warm a man's slippers, but never his veins ; 
She would feed well his stomach, but never his brains. 
And after she looks on her first baby's face, 
Her husband will hold but a second-class place 
In her thoughts or emotions, unless he falls ill, 
When a dozen trained nurses her place can not fill. 
yShe ih sweet of her kind ; and her kind since the birth 
Of this sin ridden, Circe-cursed planet, the Earth, 
Has kept it, I own, with its medleys of evil 
From going straight into the hands of the devil. 
It is not through its heroes the world lives and thrives, 
But through its sweet commonplace mothers and wives. 
We love them, and leave them; deceive, and respect 

them, 
We laud loud their virtues and straightway neglect them. 
They are daisy and buttercup women of earth 
Who grace common ways with their sweetness and 

worth. 
We praise, but we pass them, to reach for some flower^ 
That stings when we pluck it, or wilts in an hour, y 



Zbxcc 'QXHomcn. 25 



"You are thornless, fair J^uth! you are useful and 

sweet! 
But lovers shall pass you to sigh at the feet 
Of the selfish and idle, for such is man'^way; 
Your lot is to work, and to weep, and to pray. 
To give much and get little; to toil and to wait 
For the meager rewards of indifferent fate. 
Yet so wholesome your heart, you will never complain; 
You will feast on life's sorrow and drink of its pain. 
And thank God for the banquet; 'tis women like 

you 
Who make the romancing of preachers seem true. 
The earth is your debtor to such large amounts 
There must be a heaven to square up accounts. 
Or else the whole scheme of existence at best 
Is a demon's poor effort at making a jest." 

That night as Ruth brushed out her bright hazel hair 
Her thoughts were of Roger, " His bold laughing air 
Is a cloak to some sorrow concealed in his breast, 
His mind is the home of some secret unrest." 



26 ^bree Momen. 



She sighed; and there woke in her bosom once more 

The impulse to comfort and help him; to pour 

Soothing oil from the urn of her heart on his wounds. 

Where motherhood nature in woman abounds 

It is thus Cupid comes; unannounced and unbidden, 

In sweet pity's guise, with his arrows well hidden. 

But 6nce given welcome and housed as a guest. 

He hurls the whole quiver full into her breast, 

While he pulls off his mask and laughs up in her eyes 

With an impish delight at her start of surprise. 

So intent is this archer on bagging his game 

He scruples at nothing which gives him good aim. 

Ruth's heart was a virgin's, in love menaced danger 
While she sat by her mirror and pitied the stranger. 
But just as she blew out her candle and stood 
Robed for sleep in the moonlight, a change in her mood 
Quickly banished the dreamer, and brought in its stead 
The practical housekeeper. Sentiment fled; 
And she puzzled her brain to decide which were best, 
Corn muffms or hot graham gems, for the guest! 



tbvcc Momen, sy 



II. 

The short-sighted minister preached at Bay Bend 
His long-winded sermon quite through to the end, 
Unmindful there sat in the Somerville pew 
A stranger whose pale handsome countenance drew 
All eyes from his own reverend self; nor suspected 
What Ruth and her brother too plainly detected 
That the stranger was bored. 

"Though his gaze never stirred 
From the face of the preacher, his heart has not heard," 
Ruth said to herself; and her soft mother-eye 
Was fixed on his face with a look like a sigh 
In its tremulous depths, as they rose to depart. 
Then suddenly Roger, alert, seemed to start 
And his dull, listless glance changed to one of surprise 
And of pleasure. Ruth saw that the goal of his eyes 
Was her friend Mabel Lee in the vestibule; fair 
As a saint that is pictured with sun tangled hair 
And orbs like the skies in October. She smiled. 
And the saint disappeared in the innocent child 



28 ^bree Momcn. 



With an unconscious dower of beauty and youth 
She paused in the vestibule waiting for Ruth 
And seemed not to notice the warm eager gaze 
Of two men fixed upon her in different ways. 
One, the look which souls lift to a being above, 
The other a look of unreasoning love 
Born of fancy and destined to grow in an hour 
To a full fledged emotion of mastering power. 

She spoke, and her voice disappointed the ear ; 

It lacked some deep chords that the heart hoped to 

hear. 
It was sweet, but not vibrant ; it came from the throat, 
And one listened in vain for a full chested note. 
While something at times like a petulant sound 
Seemed in strange disaccord with the peace so profound 
Of the eyes and the brow. 

Though our sight is deceived 
The ear is an organ that may be believed. 
The faces of people are trained to conceal. 
But their unruly voices are prone to reveal 



XLbtce TKHomen, 29 



What lies deep in their natures ; a voice rarely lies, 
But Mabel Lee's voice told one tale, while her eyes 
Told another. Large, liquid, and peaceful as lakes 
Where the azure dawn rests, ere the loud world 

awakes. 
Were the beautiful eyes of the maiden. "A saint, 
Without mortal blemish or weak human taint," 
Said Maurice to himself. To himself Roger said : 
"The touch of her soft little hands on my head 
Would convert me. What peace for a world weary 

breast 
To just sit by her side and be soothed into rest." 

Daring thoughts for a stranger. Maurice, who had 

known 
Mabel Lee as a child, to himself would not own 
Such bold longings as those were. He held her to be 
Too sacred for even a thought that made free. 
And the voice in his bosom was silenced and hushed 
Lest the bloom from her soul by his words should be 

brushed. 



30 ttbree tQomcrt. 



There are men to whom love is religion ; but woman 
Is far better pleased with a homage more human. 
Though she may not be able to love in like fashion, 
She wants to be wooed with both ardor and passion. 
Had Mabel Lee read Roger's thoughts of her, bold 
Though they were, they had flattered and pleased her, 
I hold. 

The stranger was duly presented. 

Roger: 

Miss Lee, 

I am sure, has no least recollection of me. 

But the pleasure is mine to have looked on her face 

Once before this. 

Mabel: 

Indeed ? May I ask where ? 

Roger: 
The place 
Was the train, and the time yesterday. 

Mabel: 
"Then I came 
From my shopping excursion in town by the same 



TOree TlClomen. 31 



Fast express which brought you ? Had I known 

that the friend 
Of my friends, was so near me en route for Bay Bend, 
I had waived ail conventions and asl<ed him to tal<e 
One-half of my parcels for sweet pity's sake. 

Roger: 
You sadden me sorely. As long as I live 
1 shall mourn the great pleasure chance chose notto give. 

Maurice : 
Take courage, mon ami. Our fair friend. Miss Lee, 
Fills her time quite as full of sweet works as the bee; 
Like the bee, too, she drives out the drones from her 

hive. 
You must toil in her cause, in her favor to thrive. 

Roger: 
She need but command me. To wait upon beauty 
And goodness combined makes a pleasure of duty. 

Maurice: 
Who serves Mabel Lee serves all Righteousness too. 
Pray, then, that she gives you some labor to do. 



32 Zbvcc Momen. 



The cure for the pessimist lies in good deeds. 
Who toils for another forgets his own needs, 
And mischief and misery never attend 
On the man who is occupied fully. 

Ruth: 
Our friend 
Has the town on her shoulders. Whatever may be 
The cause that is needy, we look to Miss Lee. 
Have you gold.'* She will make you disgorge it ere long; 
Are you poor? Well, perchance you can dance — sing 

a song — 
Make a speech — tell a story, or plan a charade. 
Whatever you have, gold or wits, sir, must aid 
In her numerous charities. 

/ Mabel: 

V 
Riches and brain 

Are but loans from the Master. He meant them, 'tis 

plain. 

To be used in His service ; and people are kind, 

When once you can set them to thinking. I find 



Zbvcc momen. 33 



It is lack of perception, not lack of good heart 

Which makes the world selfish in seeming. My 

part 
Is to call the attention of Plenty to need, 
And to bid Pleasure pause for a moment and heed 
The woes and the burdens of Labor, y/ 

Ro^er: 
One plea 
From the rosy and eloquent lips of Miss Lee 
Would make Avarice pour out his coffers of gold 
At her feet, I should fancy ; would soften the cold, 
Selfish heart of the world to compassionate sighs, 
And bring tears of pity to vain Pleasure's eyes. 

As the sunset a color on lily leaves throws, 
The words and the glances of Roger Montrose 
O'er the listener's cheeks sent a pink tinted wave ; 
While Maurice seemed disturbed, and his sister grew 

grave. 
The false chink of flattery's coin smites the ear 
With an unpleasant ring when the heart is sincere. 



34 tTbree "Ullomen. 



Yet the man whose mind pockets are filled with this ore, 
Though empty his brain cells, is never a bore 
To the opposite sex. 

While Maurice knew of old 
Roger's wealth in that coin that does duty for gold 
In Society dealings, it hurt him to see 
The cheap metal offered to sweet Mabel Lee. 

(Yet, perchance, the hurt came, not so much that 'twas 

offered, 
As in seeing her take, with a smile, what was prof- 
fered.) 
They had walked, two by two, down the elm shaded 

street. 
Which led to a cottage, vine hidden, and sweet 
With the breath of the roses that covered it, where 
Mabel paused in the gateway; a picture most fair. 
"I would ask you to enter," she said, "ere you pass. 
But in just twenty minutes my Sunday-school class 
Claims my time and attention; and later I meet 
A Committee on Plans for the boys of the street. 



Zbxcc Momen, 35 



We seek to devise for these pupils in crime 
Right methods of thought and wise uses of time. 

Roger: 
I am but a vagrant, untutored and wild, 
May I join your street class, and be taught like a child? 

Mabel: 
If you come I will carefully study your case. 

Maurice: 
I must go along, too, just to keep him in place. 

Mabel: 
Then you think him unruly? 

Maurice: 
Decidedly so. 

Roger: 
I was, but am changed since one-half hour ago. 

Mabel: 
The change is too sudden to be of much worth; 
The deepest convictions are slowest of birth. 
Conversion, I hold, to be earnest and lasting. 
Begins with repentance and praying and fasting, 



36 ^bree Momen. 



And (begging your pardon for such a bold speech), 
You seem, sir, a stranger to all and to each 
Of these ways of salvation. 

Roger: 
Since yesterday, miss, 
When, unseen, I first saw you (believe me in this), 
I have deeply repented my sins of the past. 
To-night I will pray, and to-morrow will fast — 
Or, make it next week, when my shore appetite 
May be somewhat subdued in its ravenous might. 

Maurice: 

That's the way of the orthodox sinner 1 He waits 
Until time or indulgence or misery sates 
All his appetites, then his repentance begins. 
When his sins cease to please, then he gives up his 

sins 
And grows pious. Now prove you are morally brave 
By actually giving up something you crave ! 
We have fricasseed chicken and strawberry cake 
For our dinner to-day. 



Zbtcc Momcn. 37 



Roger: 

For dear principle's sake 
I could easily do what you ask, were it not 
Most unkind to Miss Ruth, who gave labor and thought 
To that menu, preparing it quite to my taste. 

Ruth: 

But the thought and the dinner will both go to waste, 
If we linger here longer; and Mabel, I see, 
Is impatient to go to her duties. 

Roger: 
The bee 
Is reluctant to turn from the lily although 
The lily may obviously wish he would go 
And leave her to muse in the sunlight alone. 
Yet when the rose calls him, his sorrow, 1 own. 
Has its recompense. So from delight to delight 
I fly with my wings honeyladen. 

Good night. 



Oh, hue is like the dawnlight 
That turns the dark to day, 

And love is like the deep night 
With secrets hid away. 

And love is like the moonlight 
Where tropic Summers glow, 

And love is like the twilight 
When dreams begin to grow. 

Oh, love is like the sunlight 
That sets the world ablaze. 

And love is like the moonlight 
With soft, illusive rays. 

And love is like the starlight 
That glimmers o'er the skies. 

And love is like the far light 

That shines from God's great eyes^ 



tTbree iraiomen. 41 



III. 

Maurice Somerville from his turreted den 
Looked out of the window and laid down his pen. 
A soft salty wind from the water was blowing, 
Below in the garden sat Ruth with her sewing. 
And stretched on the grass at her feet Roger lay 
With a book in his hand. 

Through the ripe August day, 
Piped the Katydids' voices, Jack Frost's tally-ho 
Commanding Queen Summer to pack up and go. 
Maurice leaned his head on the casement and sighed, 
Strong and full in his heart surged love's turbulent tide. 
And thoughts of the woman he worshiped with longing 
Took shape and like angels about him came thronging. 
The world was all Mabel! her exquisite face 
Seemed etched on the sunlight and gave it its grace; 
Her eyes made the blue of the heavens, the sun 
Was her wonderful hair caught and coiled into one 
Shining mass. With a reverent, worshipful awe, 
It was Mabel, fair Mabel, dear Mabel he saw, 



42 XTbree Momen. 



When he looked up to God. 

They had been much together 
Through all the bright stretches of midsummer weather, 
Ruth, Roger, and Mabel and he. Scarce a day 
But the four were united in work or in play. 
And much of the play to a man or a maid 
Not in love had seemed labor. Recital, charade, 
Garden party, church festival, musical, hop. 
Were all planned by Miss Lee without respite or stop. 
The poor were the richer; school, hospital, church, 
The heathen, the laborer left in the lurch 
By misfortune, the orphan, the indigent old, 
Our kind Lady Bountiful aided with gold 
Which she filched from the pockets of pleasure — God's 

spoil. 
And God's blessing will follow such lives when they 

toil 
Through an infinite sympathy. 

Fair Mabel Lee 
Loved to rule and to lead. She was eager to be 



tTbree Momen. 43 



In the eyes of the public. That modern day craze 
Possessed her in secret, and this was its phase. 
An innocent, even commendable, fad 
Which filled empty larders and cheered up the sad. 
She loved to do good. But, alas ! in her heart, 
She loved better still the authoritative part 
Which she played in her town. 

'Neath the saint's aureole 
Lurked the feminine tyrant who longed to control, 
And who never would serve ; but her sway was so 

sweet, 
That her world was contented to bow at her feet. 

Who toils in the great public vineyard must needs 
Let other hands keep his own garden from weeds. 
So busy was Mabel with charity fairs 
She gave little thought to her home or its cares. 
Mrs. Lee, like the typical modern day mother, 
Was maid to her daughter ; the father and brother 
Were slaves at her bidding; an excellent plan 
To make a tyrannical wife for some man. 



44 ^brce TXaomen. 



Yet where was the man who, beholding the grace 

Of that slight girlish creature, and watching her face 

With its infantile beauty and sweetness, would dare 

Think aught but the rarest of virtues dwelt there? 

Rare virtues she had, but in commonplace ones 

Which make happy husbands and home loving sons 

She was utterly lacking. Ruth Somerville saw 

In sorrow and silence this blemishing flaw 

In the friend whom she loved with devotion! Maurice 

Saw only the angel with eyes full of peace. 

The faults of plain women are easily seen. 

But who cares to peer back of beauty's fair screen 

For things which are ugly to look on.? 

The lover 
Is not quite in love when his sharp eyes discover 
The flaws in his jewel. 

Maurice from his room 
Looked dreamily down on the garden of bloom, 
Where Ruth sat with Roger; he smiled as he thought 
How quickly the world sated cynic was brought 



^bree Women. 45 



Into harness by Cupid. The man mad with drink, 
And the man mad with love, is quite certain to think 
All other men drunkards or lovers. In truth 
Maurice had expected his friend to love Ruth. 
**She was young, she was fair; with her bright sunny art 
She could scatter the mists from his world befogged 

heart. 
She could give him the one heaven under God's dome, 
A peaceful, well ordered, and love-guarded home. 
And he} why of course he would worship her! When 
Cupid finds the soft spot in the hearts of such men 
They are ideal husbands." Maurice Somerville 
Felt the whole world was shaping itself to his will. 
And his heart stirred with joy as, by thought necro- 
mancy. 
He made the near future unfold to his fancy, 
And saw Ruth the bride of his friend, and the place 
She left vacant supplied with the beauty and grace 
Of this woman he longed for, the love of his life, 
Fair Mabel, his angel, his sweet spirit wife. 



46 ^Tbree lixaomen. 



Maurice to his desk turned again and once more 
Began to unburden his bosom and pour 
His heart out on paper — the poet's relief, 
When drunk with life's rapture or sick with its 
grief. 

Song. 

When shall I tell my lady that I love her ? 

Will it be while the sunshine woos the world, 
Or when the mystic twilight bends above her. 

Or when the day's bright banners all are furled ? 
Will wild winds shriek, or will the calm stars glow, 
When I shall tell her that I love her so, 

I love her so? 

I think the sun should shine in all his glory; 

Again, the twilight seems the fitting time. 
Yet sweet dark night would understand the story, 

So old, so new, so tender, so sublime. 
Wild storms should rage to chord with my desire, 
Yet faithful stars should shine and never tire, 

And never tire. 



^bree Women* 47 



Ah, if my lady will consent to listen, 

All hours, all times, shall hear my story told. 

In amorous dawns, on nights when pale stars glisten 
In dim hushed gloamings and in noon hours bold, 

While thunders crash, and while the winds breathe low. 

Will I re-tell her that I love her so. 

I love her so. 



XLbxcc Momen. 40 



IV. 

The October day had been luscious and fair 

Like a woman of thirty. A chill in the air 

As the sun faced the west spoke of frost lurldng near 

All day the Sound lay without motion, and clear 

As a mirror, and blue as a blond baby's eyes. 

A change in the tide brought a change to the skies. 

The bay stirred and murmured and parted its lips 

And breathed a long sigh for the lost lovely ships, 

Th"l had gone with the Summer. 

Its calm placid breast 
Was stirred into passionate pain and unrest. 
Not a sail, not a sail anywhere to be seen! 
The soft azure eyes of the sea turned to green. 
A sudden wind rose; like a runaway horse 
Unchecked and unguided it sped on its course. 
The waves bared their teeth, and spat spray in the face 
Of the furious gale as they fled in the chase. 
The sun hurried into a cloud; and the trees 
Bowed low and yet lower, as if to appease 



50 Zbxee Women, 



The wrath of the storm king that threatened them. 

Close 
To the waves at their wildest stood Roger Montrose. 
The day had oppressed him; and now the unrest 
Of the wind beaten sea brought relief to his breast, 
Or at least brought the sense of companionship. 

Lashed 
By his higher emotions, the man's passions dashed 
On the shore of his mind in a frenzy of pain, 
Like the waves on the rocks, and a frenzy as vain. 

Since the day he first looked on her face, Mabel Lee 

Had seemed to his self sated nature to be, 

On life's troubled ocean, a beacon of light. 

To guide him safe out from the rocks and the night. 

Her calm soothed his passion; her peace gave him poise; 

She seemed like a silence in life's vulgar noise. 

He bathed in the light which her purity cast. 

And felt half absolved from the sins of the past. 

He longed in her mantle of goodness to hide 

And forget the whole world. By the incoming tide 



^bree Momen. 51 



He talked with his heart as one talks with a friend 
Who is dying. "The summer has come to an end 
And I wake from my dreaming," he mused. "Wake 

to know 
That my place is not here — I must go — I must go. 
Who dares laugh at Love shall hear Love laughing 

last, 
As forth from his bowstring barbed arrows are cast. 
I scoffed at the god with a sneer on my lip, 
And he forces me now from his chalice to sip 
A bitter sweet potion. Ah, lightly the part 
Of a lover I've played many times, but my heart 
Has been proud in its record of friendship. And now 
The mad, eager lover born in me must bow 
To the strong claims of friendship. I love Mabel Lee; 
Dared I woo as I would, I could make her love me. 
y The soul of a maid who knows not passion's fire 
Is moth to the flame of a man's strong desire. 
With one kiss on her lips I could banish the nun 
And wake in her virginal bosom the one 



52 ^bree HClomen. 



Mighty love of her life. If 1 leave her, I know 

She will be my friend's wife in a season or so. 

He loves her, he always has loved her; 'tis he 

Who ever will do all the loving; and she 

Will accept it, and still be the saint to the end. 

And she never will know what she missed; but my 

friend 
Has the right to speak first. God! how can he delay? 
I marvel at men "who are fashioned that way. 
He has worshiped her since first she put up her tresses, 
And let down the hem of her school-girlish dresses 
And now she is full twenty-two; were 1 he 
A brood of her children should climb on my knee 
By this time! What a sin against love to postpone 
The day that might make her forever his own. 
The man who can wait has no blood in his veins. 
Maurice is a dreamer, he loves with his brains 
Not with soul and with senses. And yet his whole 

life 
Will be blank if he makes not this woman his wife. 



Zbxec 'Momcn, 53 



She is woof of his dreams, she is warp of his mind; 
Who tears her away shall leave nothing behind. 
No, no, I am going: farewell to Bay Bend 
1 am no woman's lover — I am one man's friend. 
Still-born in the arms of the matron eyed year 
Lies the beautiful dream that my life buries here. 
Its tomb was its cradle; it came but to taunt me, 
It died, but its phantom shall ever more haunt me." 

He turned from the waves that leaped at him in wrath 

To find Mabel Lee, like a wraith, in his path. 

The rose from her cheek had departed in fear; 

The tip of her eyelash was gemmed with a tear. 

The rude winds had disarranged mantle and dress. 

And she clung with both hands to her hat in distress. 

"I am frightened," she cried, in a tremulous tone; 

*'I dare not proceed any farther alone. 

As I came by the church yard the wind felled a tree. 

And invisible hands seemed to hurl it at me; 

I hurried on, shrieking; the wind, in disgust, 

Tore the hat from my head, filled my eyes full of dust, 



54 tTbree Momen. 



And otherwise made me the butt of its sport. 
Just then I spied you, like a light in the port, 
And I steered for you. Please do not laugh at my 

fright ! 
I am really quite bold in the calm and the light, 
But when a storm gathers, or darkness prevails. 
My courage deserts me, my bravery fails. 
And I want to hide somewhere and cover my ears, 
And give myself up to weak womanish tears." 

Her ripple of talk allowed Roger Montrose 

A few needed moments to calm and compose 

His excited emotions; to curb and control 

The turbulent feelings that surged through his soul 

At the sudden encounter. 

*M quite understand," 
He said in a voice that was under command 
Of his will, *' All your fears in a storm of this kind. 
There is something uncanny and weird in the wind; 
Intangible, viewless, it speeds on its course, 
And forests and oceans must yield to its force. 



^bree '^omen. 55 



What art has constructed with patience and toil, 

The wind in one second of time can despoil. 

It carries destruction and death and despair, 

Yet no man can follow it into its lair 

And bind it or stay it — this thing without form. 

Ah! there comes the rain! we are caught in the storm. 

Put my coat on your shoulders and come with me 

where 
Yon rock makes a shelter — I often sit there 
To watch the great conflicts 'twixt tempest and sea. 
Let me lie at your feet! 'Tis the last time, Miss Lee, 
I shall see you, perchance, in this life, who can say? 
1 leave on the morrow at break 0' the day." 

Mabel: 

Indeed? Why, how sudden! and may I inquire 
The reason you leave us without one desire 
To return? for your words seem a final adieu. 

Roger: 
I never expect to return, that is true, 
Yet my wish is to stay. 



56 Zbxec Women. 



Mabel: 
Are you not your own master ? 

Roger: 
Alas, yes ! and therein lies the cause of disaster. 
Myself bids me go, my calm, reasoning part. 
The will is the man, not the poor, foolish heart, 
Which is ever at war with the intellect. So 
I silence its clamoring voices and go. 
Were I less my own master, I then might remain. 

Mabel: 
Your words are but riddles, I beg you explain. 

Roger: 
No, no, rather bid me keep silent ! To say 
Why I go were as weak on my part as to stay. 

Mabel: 
I think you most cruel ! You know, sir, my sex 
Loves dearly a secret. Then why should you vex 
And torment me in this way by hinting at one? 

Roger: 
Let us talk of the weather, I think the storm done. 



^bree IKlomen. 57 



Mabel: 
Very well ! I will go ! No, you need not come too, 
And I will not shake hands, I am angry with you. 

Roger: 
And you will not shake hands when we part for all time? 

Mabel: 
Then read me your riddle 1 

Roger: 
No, that were a crime 
Against honor and friendship; girl, girl, have a care — 
You are goading my poor, tortured heart to despair. 

His last words were lost in the loud thunder's crash; 
The sea seemed ablaze with a sulphurous flash. 
From the rocks just above them an evergreen tree 
Was torn up by the roots and flung into the sea. 
The waves with rude arms hurled it back on the 

shore; 
The wind gained in fury. The glare and the roar 
Of the lightning and tempest paled Mabel Lee's cheek. 
Her pupils dilated; she sprang with a shriek 



58 Zbxcc Momcn. 



Of a terrified child lost to all save alarm, 

And clasped Roger Montrose with both hands by the 

arm, 
While her cheek pressed his shoulder. An agony, 

sweet 
And unbearable, thrilled from his head to his feet. 
His veins were like rivers, with billows of fire: 
His will lost control; and long fettered desire 
Slipped its leash. He caught Mabel Lee to his breast. 
Drew her face up to his, on her frightened lips pressed 
Wild caresses of passion that startled and shocked. 
Like a madman he looked, like a madman he talked, 
Waiting not for reply, with no pause but a kiss, 
While his iron arms welded her bosom to his. 
"Girl, girl, you demanded my secret," he cried; 
"Well, that bruise on your lips tells the story! I tried. 
Good God, how I tried! to be silent and go 
Without speaking one word, without letting you know 
That I loved you; yet how could you lo( 'i in my eyes 
And not see love was there like the sun in the skies? 



Ubree 'OHomen, 59 



Ah, those hands on my arm — that dear head lightly 

pressed 
On my shoulder! God, woman, the heart in my breast 
Was dry powder, your touch was the spark; and the 

blame 
Must be yours if both lives are scorched black with 

the flame. 
Do you hate me, despise me, for being so weak? 
No, no! let me kiss you again ere you speak! 
You are mine for the moment; and mine — mine alone 
Is the first taste of passion your soft mouth has known. 
Whoever forestalls me in winning your hand. 
Between you and him shall this mad moment stand — 
You shall think of me, though you think only to hate. 
There — speak to me — speak to me — tell me my fate; 
On your words, Mabel Lee, hangs my whole future 

life. 
I covet you, covet you, sweet, for my wife; 
I want to stay here at your side. Since I first 
Saw your face I have felt an unquenchable thirst 



6o ^bree Momcti. 



To be good — to look deep in your eyes and find God, 
And to leave in the past the dark paths I have trod 
In my search after pleasure. Ah, must I go back 
Into folly again, to retread the old track 
Which leads out into nothingness? Girl, answer me, 
As souls answer at Judgment." 

The face of the sea 
Shone with sudden pink splendor. The riotous wind 
Swooned away with exhaustion. Each dark cloud 

seemed lined 
With vermilion. The tempest was over. A word 
Floated up like a feather; the silence was stirred 
By the soul of a sigh. The last remnant of gray 
In the skies turned to gold, as a voice whispered, 

'' Stay." 



Cod grinds His poor people to powder 
All day and all night I can hear, 

Their cries growing louder and louder. 
Oh, God, have You deadened Your ear? 

The chimes in old Trinity steeple 
Ring in the sweet season of prayer, 

And still God is grinding His people. 
He is grinding them down to despair. 

Mind, body and muscle and marrow, 
He grinds them again and again. 

Can He who takes heed of the sparrow 
Be blind to the tortures of men? 



^bcee 'Momen. 63 



In a bare little room of a tenement row 
Of the city, Maurice sat alone. It was so 
(In this nearness to life's darkest phases of grief 
And despair) that his own bitter woe found relief. 
Joy needs no companion; but sorrow and pain 
Long to comrade with sorrow. The flowery chain 
Flung by Pleasure about her gay votaries breaks 
With the least strain upon it. The chain sorrow 

makes 
Links heart unto heart. As a bullock will fly 
To far fields when an arrow has pierced him, to die, 
So Maurice had flown over far oceans to find 
No balm for his wounds, and no peace for his mind. 
Cosmopolitan, always, is sorrow; at home 
In all countries and lands, thriving well while we roam 
In vain efforts to slay it. Toil only, brings peace 
To the tempest tossed heart. What in travel Maurice 
Failed to find — self-forgetfulness — came with his work 
For the suffering poor in the slums of New York. 



64 tbree momett. 



He had wandered in strange heathen countries — had 

been 
Among barbarous hordes; bu* the greed and the sin 
Of his own native land seemed the shame of the hour. 
In his gold there was balm, in his pen there was power 
To comfort the needy, to aid and defend 
The unfortunate. Close in their midst, as a friend 
And companion, for more than twelve months he had 

dwelt. 
Like a ray of pure light in a cellar was felt 
This strong, wholesome presence. His little room bare 
Of all luxuries, taught the poor souls who flocked there 
For his counsel and aid, how by mere cleanliness 
The grim features o; want lose some lines of distress. 
The slips from the plants on his window ledge, given 
To beauty starved souls, spoke more clearly of heaven 
And God than did sermons or dry creedy tracts. 
Maurice was no preacher; and yet his kind acts . 
Of mercy and self-immolation sufficed 
To wake in dark minds a bright image of Christ — 



trbree momem 65 



The Christ often heard of, but doubted before. 
Maurice spoke no word of religion. Of yore 
His heart had accepted the creeds of his youth 
Without pausing to cavil, or question their truth. 
Faith seemed his inheritance. But, with the blow 
Which slew love and killed friendship, faith, too, 
seemed to go. 



V It is 



easy to be optimistic in pleasure, 
But when Pain stands us up by her portal to measure 
The actual height of our trust and belief, 
Ah! then is the time when our faith comes to grief. 
The woes of our fellows, God sends them, 'tis plain; 
But the devil himself is the cause of our pain. 
We question the wisdom that rules o'er the world, 
And our minds into chaos and darkness are hurled. ^■ 

The average scoffer at faith goes about 
Pouring into the ears of his fellows each doubt 
Which assails him. One truth he fails wholly to 

heed; 
That a doubt oft repeated may bore like a creed. 



66 tlbrce Momett. 



Maurice kept his thoughts to himself, but his pen 
Was dipped in the gall of his heart now and then, 
And his muse was the mouthpiece. The sin 

unforgiven 
I hold by the Cherubim chanting in heaven 
Is the sin of the poet who dares sing a strain 
Which adds to the world's awful chorus of pain 
And repinings. The souls whom the gods bless 

at birth 
With the great gift of song, have been sent to the earth 
To better and brighten it. Woe to the heart 
Which lets its own sorrow embitter its art. 
Unto him shall more sorrow be given; and life 
After life filled with sorrow, till, spent with the strife, 
He shall cease from rebellion, and bow to the rod 
In submission, and own and acknowledge his God. 

Maurice, with his unwilling muse in the gloom 
Of a mood pessimistic, was shut in his room. 
A whistle, a step on the stairway, a knock, 
Then over the transom there fluttered a flock 



Zbtcc Momciu 67 



Of white letters. The Muse, with a sigh of content, 

Left the poet to read them, and hur-riedly went 

Back to pleasanter regions. Maurice glanced them 

through: 
There were brief business epistles from two 
Daily papers, soliciting work from his pen ; 
A woman begged money for Christ's sake; three 

men 
Asked employment; a mother wrote only to say 
How she blessed him and prayed God to bless him 

each day 
For his kindness to her and to hers; and the last 
Was a letter from Ruth. The pale ghost of the past 
Rose out of its poor shallow grave, with the scent 
And the mold of the clay clinging to it, and leant 
O'er Maurice as he read, while its breath fanned his 

cheek. 

*' Forgive me," wrote Ruth; "for at last I must speak 
Of the two whom you wish to forget. Well I know 
How you suffered, still suffer, from fate's sudden blow, 



68 ^bree Momen, 



y 



Though I am a woman, and women must stay 
And fight out pain's battles where men run away. V . 
But my strength has its limit, my courage its end, 
The time has now come when I, too, leave Bay Bend. 
Maurice, let the bitterness housed in your heart 
For the man you long loved as a comrade, depart. 
And let pity replace it. Oh, weep for his sorrow — 
From your fountain of grief, held in check, let me 

borrow; 
I have so overdrawn on the bank of my tears 
That my anguish is now refused payment. For 

years 
You loved Mabel Lee. Well, to some hearts love 

speaks 
His whole tale of passion in brief little weeks. 
As Minerva, full grown, from the great brow of Jove 
Sprang to life, so full blown from our breasts may 

spring Love. 
Love hid like a bee in my heart's lily cup; 
I knew not he was there till his sting woke me up. 



Zbvcc Momen. 69 



Maurice, oh, Maurice! Can you fancy the woe 

Of seeing the prize which you coveted so 

Misused, or abused, by another? The wife 

Of the man whom I worshiped is spoiling the life 

That was wax in her hands, wax to shape as she 

chose. 
You were blind to her faults, so was Roger Montrose. 
Both saw but the saint; well, let saints keep their 

places, 
And not crowd the women in life's hurried races. 
As saint, Mabel Lee might succeed; but, oh brother, 
She never was meant for a wife or a mother. 
Her beautiful home has the desolate air 
Of a house that is ruled by its servants. The care — 
The thought of the woman (that sweet, subtle power 
Pervading some rooms like the scent of a flower). 
Which turns house into home — that is lacking. She goes 
On her merciful rounds, does our Lady Montrose, 
Looking after the souls of the heathen, and leaving 
The poor hungry soul of her lord to its grieving. 



70 XLbxcc momen. 



He craves her companionship; wants her to be 

At his side, more his own, than the public's. But 

she 
Holds such love is but selfish; and thinks he should 

make 
Some sacrifice gladly for charity's sake. 
Her schools, and her clubs, and her fairs fill her time; 
He wants her to travel; no, that were a crime 
To go seeking for pleasure, and leave duty here. 
God had given her work and her labor lay near. 
A month of the theater season in town ? 
No, the stage is an evil that needs putting down 
By good people. So, scheme as he will, the poor man 
Has to finally yield every project and plan 
To this sweet stubborn saint ; for the husband, you 

see, 
Stands last in her thoughts. He has come, after three 
Patient years, to that knowledge; his wishes, his 

needs 
Must always give way to her whims, or her creeds. 



^bvcc 'Momcn. 



She knows not the primer of loving; her soul 

Is engrossed with the poor petty wish to control. 

And she chafes at restriction. Love loves to be bound, 

And its sweetest of freedom in bondage is found. 

She pulls at her fetters. One worshiping heart 

And its faithful devotion play but a small part 

In her life. She would rather be lauded and praised 

By a crowd of inferior followers, raised 

To the pitiful height of their leader, than be 

One man's goddess. There, now, is the true Mabel 

Lee! 
Grieve not that you lost her, but grieve for the one 
Who with me stood last night by the corpse of his 

son. 
And with me stood alone. Ah! how wisely and well 
Could Mabel descant on Maternity! tell 
Other women the way to train children to be 
An honor and pride to their parents! Yet she. 
From the first, left her child to the nurses. She found 
Twas a tax on her nerves to have baby around 



72 ^bree Momcn. 



When it worried and cried. The nurse knew what to do, 
And a block down the street lived Mama! 'twixt the 

two 
Little Roger would surely be cared for. She must 
Keep her strength and be worthy the love and the trust 
Of the poor, who were yearly increasing, and not 
Bestow on her own all the care and the thought — 
That were selfishness, surely. 

Well, the babe grew apace. 
But yesterday morning a flush on its face 
And a look in its eye worried Roger. The mother 
Was due at some sort of convention or other 
In Boston — I think 'twas a grand federation 
Of clubs formed by women to rescue the Nation 
From man's awful clutches; and Mabel was made 
The head delegate of the Bay Bend Brigade. 
Once drop in a small, selfish nature the seed 
Of ambition for place, and it grows like a weed. 
The fair village angel we called Mabel Lee, 
As Mrs. Montrose, has developed, you see, 



XLbvcc Wiomcn. 73 



To a full fledged Reformer. It quite turned her head 
To be sent to the city of beans and brown bread 
As a delegate ! (Delegate ! magical word ! 
The heart of the queer modern woman is stirred 
Far more by its sound than by aught she may hear 
In the phrases poor Cupid pours into her ear.) 
Mabel chirped to the baby a dozen good-byes, 
And laughed at the trouble in Roger's grave eyes, 
As she leaned o'er the lace ruffled crib of her son 
And talked baby-talk: **Now be good, 'ittle one, 
While Mama is away, and don't draw a long breath, 
Unless '00 would worry Papa half to death. 
And don't cough, and, of all things, don't sneeze, 'ittle 

dear. 
Or Papa will be thrown into spasms of fear. 
Now, good-bye, once again, 'ittle man; mother knows 
There is no other baby like Roger Montrose 
In the whole world to-day." 

So she left him. That night 
The nurse sent a messenger speeding in fright 



74 XLbvcc 'Momcw. 



For the Doctor; a second for Grandmama Lee 

And Roger despatched still another for me. 

All in vain! through the gray chilly paths of the dawn 

The soul of the beautiful baby passed on 

Into Mother-filled lands. 

Ah! my God, the despair 
Of seeing that agonized sufferer there; 
To stand by his side, yet denied the relief 
Of sharing, as wife, and as mother, his grief. 
Enough! 1 have borne all I can bear. The role 
Of friend to a lover pulls hard on the soul 
Of a sensitive woman. The three words in life 
Which have meaning to me are home, mother and 

wife — 
Or, rather, wife, mother and home. Once I thought 
Men cared for the women who found home the spot 
Next to heaven for happiness; women who knew 
No ambition beyond being loyal and true, 
And who loved all the tasks of the housewife. I learn, 
Instead, that from women of that kind men turn, 



tlbree tlClometi^ 75 



With a yawn, unto those who are useless; who live 
For the poor hollow world and for what it can give, 
And who make home the spot where, when other joys 

cease, 
One sleeps late when one wishes. 

You left me Maurice 
Left the home I have kept since our dear Mother 

died, 
With such sisterly love and such housewifely pride, 
And you wandered afar, and for what cause, forsooth? 
Oh ! because a vain, self-loving woman, in truth, 
Had been faithless. The man whom I worshiped, 

ignored 
The love and the comfort my woman's heart stored 
In its depths for his taking, and sought Mabel Lee. 
Well, I'm done with the role of the housewife. I see 
There is nothing in being domestic. The part 
Is unpicturesque, and at war with all art. 
The senile old Century leers with dim eyes 
At our sex and demands that we shock or surprise 



76 tTbree limomeit. 



His thin blood into motion. The home's not the place 
To bring a pleased smile to his wicked old face. 
To the mandate I bow; since all strive for that end, 
I must join the great throng ! I am leaving Bay Bend 
This day week. I will see you in town as I pass 

To the college at C , where I enter the class 

Of medical students — I fancy you will 

Like to see my name thus — Dr. Ruth Somerville." 

Maurice dropped the long, closely written epistle, 
Stared hard at the wall, and gave vent to a whistle. 
A Doctor ! his sweet, little home-loving sister. 
A Doctor ! one might as well prefix a Mister 
To Ruth Somerville, that most feminine name. 
And then in the wake of astonishment came 
Keen pity for all she had suffered. "Poor Ruth, 
She writes like an agonized woman, in truth, 
And like one torn with jealousy. Ah, I can see," 
He mused, ''how the pure soul of sweet Mabel Lee 
Revolts at the bondage and shrinks from the ban 
That lies in the love of that sensual man. 



Sbree Momeii. -jl 



He is of the earth, earthy. He loves but her beauty, 
He cares not for conscience, or honor or duty. 
Like a moth she was dazzled and lured by the flame 
Of a light she thought love, till she learned its true name; 
When she found it mere passion, it lost all its charms. 
No wonder she flies from his fettering arms! 
God pity you, Mabel! poor ill mated wife; 
/"But my love, like a planet, shall watch o'er your life, 
Though all other light from your skies disappear, 
Like a sun in the darkness my love shall appear. 
Unselfish and silent, it asks no return, ^ 

But while the great firmament lasts it shall burn." ^ 

Muse, muse, awake, and sing thy loneliest strain, 
Song, song, be sad with sorrow's deepest pain, 
Heart, heart, bow down and never bound again, 

My Lady grieves, she grieves. 

Night, night, draw close thy filmy mourning veil, 
Moon, moon, conceal thy beauty sweet and pale. 
Wind, wind, sigh out thy most pathetic wail. 

My Lady grieves, she grieves. 



7S Zbxcc Momcn. 



Time, time, speed by, thou art too slow, too slow, 
Grief, grief, pass on, and take thy cup of woe, 
Life, life, be kind, ah! do not wound her so, 

My Lady grieves, she grieves. 

Sleep, sleep, dare not to touch mine aching eyes. 
Love, love, watch on, though fate thy wish denies, 
Heart, heart, sigh on, since she, my Lady, sighs. 

My Lady grieves, she grieves. 



The flower breathes low to the bee, 
"Behold, I am ripe with bloom. 

Let Love have his way with me. 
Ere I fall unwed in my tomb." 

The rooted plant sighs in distress 
To the winds by the garden walk 

"Oh, waft me my lover's caress, 
Or I shrivel and die on my stalk." 

The whippoorwill utters her love 
In a passionate "Come, oh come," 

To the male in the depths of the grove. 
But the heart of a woman is dumb. 

The lioness seeks her mate, 
The she-tiger calls her own — 

Who made it a woman's fate 
To sit in the silence alone? 



Sbrec Timomen. 



VI. 

Wooed, wedded and widowed ere twenty. The life 
Of Zoe Travers is told in that sentence. A wife 
For one year, loved and loving; so full of life's joy 
That death, growing jealous, resolved to destroy 
The Eden she dwelt in. Five desolate years 
She walked robed in weeds, and bathed ever in tears. 
Through the valley of memory. Locked in love's tomb 
Lay youth in its glory and hope in its bloom. 
At times she was filled with religious devotion, 
Again crushed to earth with rebellious emotion 
And unresigned sorrow. 

Ah, wild was her griet ! 
And the years seemed to bring her no balm of relief. 
When a heart from its sorrow time cannot estrange, 
God sends it another to alter and change 
The current of feeling. Zoe's mother, her one 
Tie to earth, became ill. When the doctors had done 
All the harm which they dared do with powder and pill, 
They ordered a trial of Dame Nature's skilL 



§2 tbree IMomen, 



Dear Nature ! what grief in her bosom must stir 
When she sees us turn everywhere save unto her 
For the health she holds always in keeping; and sees 
Us at last, when too late, creeping back to her knees, 
Begging that she at first could have given! 

'Twas so 
Mother Nature's heart grieved o'er the mother of Zoe, 
Who came but to die on her bosom. She died 
Where the mocking bird poured out its passionate tide 
Of lush music; and all through the dark days of pain 
That succeeded, and over and through the refrain 
Of her sorrow, Zoe heard that wild song evermore. 
It seemed like a blow which pushed open a door 
In her heart. Something strange, sweet and terrible 

stirred 
In her nature, aroused by the song of that bird. 
It rang like a voice from the future; a call 
That came not from the past; yet the past held her all. 
To the past she had plighted her vows; in the past 
Lay her one dream of happiness, first, only, last. 



Zbxcc Timomen, 83 



Alone in the world now, she felt the unrest 

Of an unanchored boat on the wild billow's breast. 

Two homes had been shattered; the West held but 

tombs. 
She drifted again where the magnolia blooms 
And the mocking bird sings. Oh! that song, that 

wild strain. 
Whose echoes still haunted her heart and her 

brain! 
How she listened to hear it repeated! It came 
Through the dawn to her heart, and the sound was 

like flame. 
It chased all the shadows of night from her room, 
And burst the closed bud of the day into bloom. 
It leaped to the heavens, it sank to the earth 
It gave life new rapture and love a new birth. 
It ran through her veins like a fiery stream, 
And the past and its sorrow — was only a dream. 

The call of a bird m the spring for its lover 
Is the voice of all Nature when winter is over. 



84 Zbxcc limomcn. 



The heart of the woman re-echoed the strain, 
And its meaning, at last, to her senses was plain. 

Grief's winter was over, the snows from her heart 
Were melted; hope's blossoms were ready to start. 
The spring had returned with its siren delights. 
And her youth and emotions asserted their rights. 
Then memory struggled with passion. The dead 
Seemed to rise from the grave and accuse her. She fled 
From her thoughts as from lepers; returned to old 

ways, 
And strove to keep occupied, filling her days 
With devotional duties. But when the night came 
She heard through her slumber that song like a flame, 
And her dreams were sweet torture. She sought all 

too soon 
To chill the warm sun of her youth's ardent noon 
With the shadows of premature evening. Her mind 
Lacked direction and purpose. She tried in a blind. 
Groping fashion to follow an early ideal 
Of love and of constancy, starving the real 



Zhxcc Momcn. 85 



Affectional nature God gave her. She prayed 

For God's help in unmaki-ng the woman He made, 

As if He repented the thing He had done. 

With the soul of a Sappho, she lived like a nun, 

Hid her thoughts from all women, from men kept 

apart. 
And carefully guarded the book of her heart 
From the world's prying eyes. Yet men read through 

the cover, y 
And knew that the story was food for a lover. 
(The dullest of men seemed possessed of the art 
To read what the passions inscribe on the heart. 
Though written in cipher and sealed from the sight. 
Yet masculine eyes will interpret aright.) 
Worn out with the unceasing conflict at last, 
Zoe fled from herself and her sorrowful past. 
And turned to new scenes for diversion from thought. 

New York ! oh, what magic encircles that spot 

In the feminine mind of the West ! There, it seems, 

Waits the realization of beautiful dreams. 



86 Zbvcc TlClomen. 



There the waters of Lethe unceasingly roll, 
With blessed forgetfulness free to each soul, 
While the doorways that lead to success open wide, 
With Fame in the distance to beckon and guide. 
Mirth lurks in each byway, and Folly herself 
Wears the look of a semi-respectable elf. 
And is to be courted and trusted when met, 
For she teaches one how to be gay and forget, 
And to start new account books with life. 

It was so. 
Since she first heard the name of the city, that Zoe 
Dreamed of life in New York. It was thither she 

turned 
To smother the heart that with restlessness burned, 
And to quiet and calm an unsatisfied mind. 
Her plans were but outlines, crude, vague, undefined. 
Of distraction and pleasure. A snug little home. 
With seclusion and comfort; full freedom to roam 
Where her fancy and income permitted; new faces, 
New scenes, new environments, far from the places 



Zbtcc 'Momcrx, 87 



Where brief joy and long sorrow had dwelt with her; free 
From the curious eyes that seemed ever to be 
Bent upon her. She passed like a ship from the port, 
Without chart or compass; the plaything and sport 
Of the billows of Fate. 

The parks were all gay 
And busy with costuming duties of May 
When Zoe reached New York. The rain and the 

breeze 
Had freshened the gowns of the Northern pine trees 
Till they looked bright as new; all the willows were 

seen 
In soft dainty garments of exquisite green. 
Young buds swelled with life, and reached out to 

invite 
And to hold the warm gaze of the wandering light. 
The turf exhaled fragrance; among the green boughs 
The unabashed city birds plighted their vows. 
Or happy young house hunters chirped of the best 
And most suitable nook to establish a nest. 



^bree "Wllomen. 



There was love in the sunshine, and love in the air; 

Youth, hope, home, companionship, spring, every- 
where. 

There was youth, there was spring in her blood; yet 
she only, 

In all the great city, seemed loveless and lonely. 

The trim little flat, facing north on the park. 

Was not homelike; the rooms seemed too sombre and 

dark 
To her eyes, sun-accustomed; the neighbors too near 
And too noisy. The medley of sounds hurt her ear. 
Sudden laughter; the cry of an infant; the splash 
Of a tenant below in his batb-tub; the crash 
Of strong hands on a keyboard above, and the light. 
Merry voice of the lady who lived opposite. 
The air intertwined in a tangled sound ball, 
And flung straight at her ear through the court and 

the hall. 

Ah, what loneliness dwelt in the rush and the stir 
Of the great pushing throngs that were nothing to her, 



^bree Momen. 89 



And to whom she was nothing! Her heart, on its quest 
For distraction, seemed eating itself in her breast. 
She longed for a comrade, a friend. In the church 
Which she frequented no one abetted her search, 
For the faces of people she met in its aisle 
Gazed calmly beyond her, without glance or smile. 
The look in their eyes, when translated, read thus, 
v^"We worship God here, what are people to us?" 
In some masculine eyes she read more, it is true. 
What she read made her gaze at the floor of her pew. 

The blithe little blonde who lived over the hall, 

In the opposite rooms, was the first one to call 

Or to show friendly feeling. She seemed sweet and 

kind. 
But her infantile face hid a mercantile mind. 
Her voice had the timbre of metal. Each word 
Clinked each word like small change in a purse; and 

you heard. 
In the rustling silk of her skirts, just a hint 
Of new bills freshly printed and right from the mint. 



90 Zbvcc TKHomcn. 



There was that in her airs and her chatter which made 

Zoe question and ponder, and turn half afraid 

From her proffers of friendship. When one July day 

The fair neighbor called for a moment to say, 

'*! am off to Long Branch for the summer, good-bye," 

Zoe seemed to breathe freer — she scarcely knew why. 

But she reasoned it out as alone in the gloom 

Of the soft summer evening she sat in her room. 

"The woman is happy," she said; "at the least. 

Her heart is not starving in life's ample feast. 

She lives while she lives, but I only exist. 

And Fate laughs in my face for the things I resist." 

New York in the midsummer seems like the gay 
Upper servant who rules with the mistress away. 
She entertains friends from all parts of the earth; 
Her streets are alive with a fictitious mirth. 
She flaunts her best clothes with a devil-may-care 
Sort of look, and her parks wear a riotous air. 
There is something unwholesome about her at dusk; 
Her trees, and her gardens, seem scented with musk; 



tTbree llClomen. ^t 



And you feel she has locked up the door of the house 
And, half drunk with the heat, wanders forth to 

carouse, 
With virtue, ambition and industry all 
Packed off (moth-protected) with garments for Fall. 

Zoe felt out of step with the town. In the song 
Which it sang, where each note was a soul of the 

throng, 
She seemed the one discord. Books gave no dis- 
traction. 
She cared not for study, her heart longed for action, 
For pleasure, excitement. Wild impulses, new 
To her mind, came like demons and urged her to do 
All sorts of mad things. Mischief breathed through 

the air. 
One could do as one liked in New York — who would 

care — 
Who would know save the God who had left her 

alone 
In his world, unprotected, unloved.? From her own 



92 ttbvcc Momen. 



Restless mind and sick heart she attempted once more 
To escape. One reads much of gay life at the shore — 
Narragansett, she fancied, would suit her. The sea 
Would at least prove a friend; and, perchance, there 

might be 
Some heart, like her own, seeking comradeship there. 
The days brought no friend. But the moist, salty air 
Was a stimulant, giving existence new charms. 
The sea was a lover who opened his arms 
Every day to embrace her. And life in this place 
Held something of pleasure, and sweetness and grace, 
Though the eyes of the men were too ardent and bold, 
And the eyes of the women suspicious and cold, 
She yet had the sea — the sea, strong and mighty, 
Both father and mother of fair Aphrodite. 



tbvcc UHometi. 93 



VII. 

Mabel grieved for her child with a sorrow sincere, 

But she bowed to the will of her Maker. No tear 

Came to soften the hard, stony look in the eye 

Of her husband; she heard no complaint and no sigh 

From his lips, but he turned with impatience whenever 

She spoke of religion, or made one endeavor 

To lead his thoughts up from the newly turned sod 

Where the little form slept, to its spirit with God. 

Long hours by that grave, Roger passed, and alone. 
The woes of her neighbors his wife made her own. 
But her husband she pointed to Christ; and in grief 
Prayed for light to be cast on his dark unbelief. 

She flung herself into good works more and more. 
And saw not that the look which her husband's face 

wore 
Was the look of a man starved for love. In the mold 

yOf a nun she was fashioned, chaste, passionless, cold. 
(Such women sin more when they take marriage ties 
Than the love-maddened creature who lawlessly lies 



04 tbvcc Wionxcn. 



In the arms of the man whom she worships. The 

child 
Not conceived in true love leaves the mother defiled. 
Though an army of clergymen sanction her vows, 
God sees ''illegitimate" stamped on the brows 



Of her offspring. Love only can legalize birth 



,./ 



In His eyes — all the rest is but spawn of the earth.) 



Mabel Lee, as the maid, had been flattered and 

pleased 
By the passion of Roger; his wild wooing teased 
That inquisitive sense, half a fault, half a merit. 
Which the daughters of Eve, to a woman, inherit. 
His love fanned her love for herself to a glow; 
She was stirred by the thought she could stir a man 

so. 
That was all. She had nothing to give in return. 
One can't light a fire with no fuel to burn; 
And the love Roger dreamed he could rouse in her 

soul 
Was not there to be wakened. He stood at his goal 



tCbree Mometi. q5 



As the Arctic explorer may finally stand, 
To see all about him an ice prisoned land, 
White, beautiful, useless. 

Some women are chaste. 
Like the snows which envelop the bleak arid 

waste 
Of the desert; once melted, alas! what remains 
But the poor, unproductive, dry soil of the plains? 
The flora of Cupid will never be found, 
However he toil there, to thrive in such ground. 

Mabel Montrose was held in the highest esteem 

By her neighbors; 1 think neighbors everywhere 

deem 
Such women to be all that's noble. They sighed 
When they spoke of her husband; they told how she 

tried 
To convert him, and how they had thought for a 

season 
His mind was bent Christ-ward; and then, with no 

reason. 



96 ^bree Momen. 



He seemed to drift back to the world, and grew jealous 
Of Mabel, and thought her too faithful and zealous 
In duty to others. 

The death of his child 
Only hardened his heart against God. He grew wild, 
Took to drink; spent a week at a time in the city, 
Neglecting his saint of a wife — such a pity. 
It was true. I4)ur friends keep a sharp eye on our deeds 
But the fine interlining of causes — who heeds ? 
The long list of heartaches which lead to rash acts 
Would bring pity, not blame, if the world knew the facts. |/ 

There are women so terribly free from all evil, 
They discourage a man, and he goes to the devil. 
There are people whose virtues result in appalling, . 
And they prove a great aid to his majesty's calling. \l 

Roger's wife rendered goodness so dreary and cold, 
His tendril-like will lost its poor little hold 
On the new better life he was longing to reach, 
And slipped back to the dust. Oh ! to love, not to 
preach. 



^bree Momen. 97 



Is a woman's true method of helping mankind. 
The sinner is won through his heart, not his mind. 
As the sun loves the seed up to life through the sod, 
So the patience of love brings a soul to its God. 
But when love is lacking, the devil is sure 
To stand in the pathway with some sort of lure. 
Roger turned to the world for distraction. The world 
Smiled a welcome, and then like an octopus curled 
All its tentacles 'round him, and dragged him away 
Into deep, troubled waters. 

One late summer day 
He awoke with a headache, which will not surprise. 
When you know that his bedtime had been at sun- 
rise. 
And that gay Narraganset, the world renowned 

''Pier," 
Was the scene. Through the lace curtained window 

the clear 
Yellow rays of the hot August sun touched his bed 
And proclaimed it was mid-day. He rose, and his head 



98 ' XLbvcc Momen. 



Seemed as large and as light as an air filled balloon 
While his limbs were like lead. 

In the glare of the noon, 
The follies of night show their makeup, and seem 
Like hideous monsters evoked by some dream. 

The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breast 
And forget the dull world. My unrest shall give 

rest 
To your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wine 
On your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine. 
Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirth 
Of the sea is not known by the stupid old earth." 

i 

The beach swarmed with bathers — to be more exact, 
Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact, 
Many beautiful women bathed but in the light 
Of men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the 

sight, 
Not the sea. From the sea's lusty outreaching arms 
They escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men 

viewed their charms 



XLhvcc Wiomcn, 99 



And made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour, 
The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, 

a-flower 
With faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath, 
Roger paused in confusion, because in his path 
Surged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bent 
On the form of a woman who leisurely went 
From her bathing house down to the beach. "There 

she goes," 
Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toes 
With her whole ample weight. ''What, the one with 

red hair.? 
Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare." 
A man passing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned, 
Look ! there is La Travers, the one with the red 
Braid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here, 
And at present the topic of talk at the Pier." 
Roger followed their glances in time to behold 
For a second a head crowned with braids of bright 

gold. 



L.cfC, 



100 ^bree TKIlomcn* 



And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white. 
Then she plunged through a billow and vanished 
from sight. 

It was half an hour afterward, possibly more, 
As Roger swam farther and farther from shore, 
With new life in his limbs and new force in his 

brain, 
That he heard, just behind him, a sharp cry of pain. 
Ten strokes in the rear on the crest of a wave 
Shone a woman's white face. "Keep your courage; 

be brave; 
I am coming," he shouted. "Turn over and float." 
His strong shoulder plunged like the prow of a 

boat 
Through the billows. Six overhand strokes brought 

him close 
To the woman, who lay like a wilted white rose 
On the waves. "Now, be careful," he cried; "lay 

your hand 
Well up on my shoulder; my arms, understand, 



^bree Momcn» loi 



Must be free; do not touch them — please follow my 

wishes, 
Unless you are anxious to fatten the fishes." 
The woman obeyed him. "You need not fear me," 
She replied, "I am wholly at home in the sea. 
I knew all the arts of the swimmer, I thought, 
But confess I was frightened when suddenly caught 
With a cramp in my knee at this distance from shore." 
With slow even breast strokes the strong swimmer bore 
His fair burden landward. She lay on the billows 
As lightly as if she were resting on pillows 
Of down. She relinquished herself to the sea 
And the man, and was saved; though God knows 

both can be 
False and fickle enough; yet resistance or strife, 
On occasions like this, means the forfeit of life. 
The throng of the bathers had scattered before 
Roger carried his burden safe into the shore 
And saw her emerge from the water, a place 
Where most women lose every vestige of grace 



102 tTbree Momcn. 



Or of charm. But this mermaid seemed fairer than 

when 
She had challenged the glances of women and men 
As she went to her bath. Now her clinging silk 

suit 
Revealed every line, from the throat to the foot, 
Of her beautiful form. Her arms, in their splendor, 
Gleamed white like wet marble. The round waist 

was slender, 
And yet not too small. From the twin perfect crests 
And the virginlike grace of her beautiful breasts 
To the exquisite limbs and the curve of her thigh, 
And the arch of her proud little instep, the eye 
Drank in beauty. Her face was not beautiful; yet 
The gaze lingered on it, for Eros had set 
His seal on her features. The mouth full and weak, 
The blue shadow drooping from eyelid to cheek 
Like a stain of crushed grapes, and the pale, ardent 

skin. 
All spoke of volcanic emotions within. 



Ebree Momen. 103 



By her tip tilted nose and low brow, it was plain 
To read how her impulses ruled o'er her brain. 
She had given the chief role of life to her heart, 
And her intellect played but a small minor part. 
Her eyes were the color the sunlight reveals 
When it pierces the soft, furry coat of young seals. 
The thickly fringed lids seemed unwilling to rise, 
But drooped, half concealing them; wonderful eyes, 
Full of secrets and bodings of sorrow. As coarse 
And as thick as the mane of a finely groomed 

horse 
Was her bright mass of hair. The sea, with rough 

hands. 
Had made free with the braids, and unloosened the 

strands 
Till they hung in great clusters of curls to her knees. 
Her voice, when she spoke, held the breadth and the 

breeze 
Of the West in its tones; and the use of the R 
Made the listener certain her home had been far 



104 ^bree IHflomen. 



From New England. Long after she vanished from 

view 
The eye and the ear seemed to sense her anew. 
There was that in her voice and her presence which 

hung 
In the air like a strain of a song which is sung 
By a singer, and then sings itself the whole day, 
And will not be silenced. 

As birds flock away 
From meadow to tree branch, now there and now here, 
So, from beach to Casino, each day at the Pier 
Flock the gay pleasure seekers. The balconies glow 
With beauty and color. The belle and the beau 
Promenade in the sunlight, or sit tete-a-tete. 
While the chaperons gossip together. Bands play. 
Glasses clink; and 'neath sheltering lace parasols 
There are plans made for meeting at drives or at balls. 

Roger sat at a table alone, with his glass 
Of mint julep before him, and watched the crowd 
pass. 



Zbxcc XClomen. 105 



There were all sorts of people from all sorts cf places. 
He thought he liked best the fair Baltimore faces. 
The South was the land of fair women, he mused, 
Because they were indolent. Women who used 
Mind or body too freely. Changed curves into angles, 
For beauty forever with intellect wrangles. 
The trend of the fair sex to-day must alarm 
Every lover of feminine beauty and charm. 

As he mused Roger watched with a keen interest 
For a sight of his Undine. " All coiffured and drest, 
With her wonderful body concealed, and her hair 
Knotted up, well, I doubt if she seem even fair," 
He soliloquized. "Ah!" the word burst from his lips, 
For he saw her approaching. She walked from the 

hips 
With an undulous motion. As graceful and free 
From all effort as waves swinging in from the sea 
Were her movements. Her full molded figure seemed 

slight 
In its close fitting gown of black cloth; and the white 



io6 ^bree llClomen, 



Of her cheek seemed still whiter by contrast. Her 

clothes 
Were tasteful and quiet; yet Roger Montrose 
Knew in some subtle manner he could not express 
(Tis an instinct men have in the matters of dress) 
That they never were made in New York. By her 

hat 
One can oft read a woman's whole character. That 
Which our fair Undine wore was a thing of rich lace, 
Flowers and ribbons like others one saw in the place. 
Yet the width of the brim, or the twist of its bows, 
Or the way it was worn made it different from those. 
As it drooped o'er the eyes full of mystery there, 
It seemed, all at once, both a menace and dare; 
A menace to women, a dare to the men. 
She bowed as she passed Roger's table; and then 
Took a chair opposite, spread her shade of red silk, 
Called a waiter and ordered a cup of hot milk, 
Which she leisurely sipped. She seemed unawaie 
Of the curious eyes she attracted. Her air 



Zhvcc Wiomau 107 



Was of one quite at home, and entirely at ease 
With herself, the sole person she studied to please. 
She had been for three weeks at the Pier, and alone, 
Without maid or escort, and nothing was known 
Of her there, save the name which the register bore, 
"Mrs. Travers, New York." Men were mad to learn 

more 
But the women were distant. One can't, at such 

places. 
Accept as credentials good figures or faces. 
There was an unnameable something about 
Mrs. Travers which filled other women with doubt 
And all men with interest. Roger, blase, 
Disillusioned with life as he was, felt the sway 
Of her strong personality, there as she sat 
Looking out 'neath the rim of her coquettish hat 
With dark eyes on the sea. Few people had power 
To draw his gray thoughts from himself for an hour 
As this woman had done; she was food for his mind, 
And he sought by his inner perceptions to find 



io8 Zbvcc Wlomen. 



In what class she belonged. ''An adventuress? No, 
Though I fancy three-fourths of the women think so 
And one-half of the men; but that role leaves a 

trace, 
An expression, I fail to detect in her face. 
Her past is not shadowed; my judgment would say 
That her sins lie before her, and not far away. 
She's a puzzle, I think, to herself; and grim Fate 
Will aid her in solving the riddle too late. 
Her soul dreams of happiness; but in her eyes 
The sensuous foe to all happiness lies. 
As the rain is drawn up by some moods of the sun. 
Some natures draw trouble from life; her's is one." 

She rose and passed by him again, and her gown 
Brushed his knee. A light tremor went shivering 

down 
His whole body. She left on the air as she went 
A subtle suggestion of perfume; the scent 
Which steals out of some fans, or old laces, and seems 
Full of soft fragrant fancies and lanofuorous dreams. 



^bree "Ullomen. ioq 



She haunted the mind, though she passed from the 
sight. 

When Roger Montrose sought his pillow that night, 

'Tvvas to dream of La Travers. He thought she be- 
came 

A burning red rose, with each leaf like a flame. 

He stooped down and plucked it, and woke with a 
start, 

As it turned to an adder and struck at his heart. 

The dream left its impress, as certain dreams should, 
For, as warnings of evil, precursors of good, 
They are sent to our souls o'er a mystical line, 
Night messages, couched in a cipher divine. 

Roger knew much of life, much of women, and knew 
Even more of himself and his weaknesses. Few 
Of us mortals look inward; our gaze is turned out 
To watch what the rest of the world is about. 
While the rest of the world watches us. 

Roger's reason 
And logic were clear. But his will played him treason. 



XLbvcc Momen. 



If you looked at his hand, you would see it. Hands 

speak 
More than faces. His thumb (the first phalanx) was 

weak. 
Undeveloped; the second, firm jointed and long, 
Which showed that the reasoning powers were strong, 
But the will, from disuse, had grown feeble. 

That morning 
He looked on his dream in the light of a warning 
And made sudden plans for departure. ''To go 
Is to fly from some folly," he said, ''for I know 
What salt air and dry wine, and the soft siren eyes 
Of a woman, can do under midsummer skies 
With a man who is wretched as I am. Unrest 
Is a tramp, who goes picking the locks on one's breast 
That a whole gang of vices may enter. A thirst 
For strong drink and chance games, those tvv^in com- 
rades accursed, 
Are already admitted. Oh Mabel, my wife, 
Reach, reach out your arms, draw me into the life 



^bree momen. n 



That alone is worth living. I need you to-day, 
Have pity, and love me, oh love me, 1 pray. 
I will turn once again from the bad world to you. 
Though false to myself, to my vows I am true." 

Ix'When a soul strives to pull itself up out of sin 
The devil tries harder to push it back in. 
And the man who attempts to retrace the wrong track 
Needs his God and his will to stand close at his back. 

Through what are called accidents, Roger was late 
At the train. Are not accidents servants of Fate? 
The first coach v/as filled; he passed on to the second. 
That, too, seemed complete, but a gentleman beckoned 
And said, ''There's a seat, sir; the third from the last 
On your left." Roger thanked him and leisurely 

passed 
Down the aisle, with his coat on his arm, to the place 
Indicated. The seat held a lady, whose face 
Was turned to the window. "Pray pardon me, miss" 
(For he judged by her back she was youthful), "is 

this 



112 XLbvcc Momen. 



Seat engaged?" As he spoke, the face turned in 

surprise, 
And Roger looked into the long, languid eyes 
Of La Travers. She smiled, moved her wraps from 

the seat. 
And he sat down beside her. The same subtle, sweet 
Breath of perfume exhaled from her presence, and 

made 
The place seem a boudoir. The deep winey shade 
'Neath her eyes had grown larger, as if she had 

wept 
Or a late, lonely vigil with memory kept. 

A man who has rescued a woman from danger 
Or death, does not seem to her wholly a stranger 
When next she encounters him; yet both essayed 
To be formal and proper; and each of them made 
The effort a failure. The jar of a train 
At times holds a mesmeric spell for the brain 
And a tense excitation for nerves; and the shriek 
Of the engine compels one to lean near to speak 



Zbtcc Women. 113 



Or to list to his neighbor. Formality flies 
With the smoke of the train and floats off to the skies. 
Roger led his companion to talk; and the theme 
Which he chose, was herself, her life story. The 

dream 
Of the previous night was forgotten. The charm 
Of the woman outweighed superstitious alarm. 

When the sunlight began to play peek-a-boo 
Through the tunnels, which told them the journey 

was through, 
Roger looked at his time-piece; the train for Bay Bend 
Left in just twenty minutes; but what a rude end 
To the day's pleasant comradeship — rushing away 
With a hurried good-bye ! He decided to stay 
Over night in the city. He was not expected 
At home. Mrs. Travers was quite unprotected. 
And almost a stranger in Gotham. He ought 
To see her safe into her doorway, he thought. 
At the doorway she gave him her hand, with a smile; 
'' I have known you," she said, "such a brief little while, 



114 Zhvcc Momen. 



Yet you seem like a friend of long standing; I say 
Good-bye with reluctance." 

** Perhaps, then, I may 
Call and see you to-morrow?" the words seemed to 

fall 
Of themselves from his lips; words he longed to recall 
When once uttered, for deep in his conscience he knew 
That the one word for him to speak now, was adieu. 
The lady's soft, cushion-like hand rested still 
In his own, and the contact was pleasant. A thrill 
From the fmger tips quickened his pulses. 

''You may 
Call to-morrow at four." The soft hand slipped away 
And left his palm lonely. 

"The call must be brief," 
He said to himself, with a sense of relief. 
As he ran down the steps, "for at five my train goes." 
Yet the five o'clock train bore no Roger Montrose 
From New York. Mrs. Travers had asked him to dine. 
A tete-a-tete dinner with beauty and wine, 



^bree Women. 115 



To stir the man's senses and deaden his brain. 
(The devil keeps always good chefs in his train.) 
It was ten when he rose for departure. The room 
Seemed a garden of midsummer fragrance and bloom. 
The lights with their soft rosy coverings made 
A glow like late sunsets, in some tropic glade. 
The world seemed afar, with its dullness and duty, 
And life was a rapture of love and of beauty. 

God knows how it happened; they never knew how. 
He turned with a formal conventional bow, 
And some well chosen words of politeness, to go. 
Her mouth was a rose Love had dropped in the snow 
Of her face. It smiled up to him, luscious and sweet, 
in the tip of each fmger he felt his heart beat. 
Like five hearts all in one, as her hand touched his 

own. 
She murmured ''good-night," in a tremulous tone. 
White, intense, through the soft golden mist which 

the wine 
'Had cast over his vision, he saw her face shine. 



i6 ^Tbrec liUlomen. 



Her low lidded eyes held a lion-like glow. 

You have seen sudden storms lash the ocean? You 

know 
How the cyclone, unheralded, rises in wrath, 
And leaves devastation and death in its path? 
So swift, sudden passion may rise in its power, 
And rum and blight a whole life in an hour. 
Two unanchored souls in its maelstrom were whirled, 
Drawn down by love's undertow, lost to the world. 
The dark, solemn billows of night shut them in. 
Like corpses afloat on the ocean of sin 
They must seem to their true, better selves, when 

again 
The tide drifts them back to the notice of men. 



Forget me, dear; forget and cease to love me, 
I am not worth one memory, kind or true, 

Let silent, pale Oblivion spread above me 
Her winding sheet, for I am dead to you. 

Forget, forget. 

Sin has resumed its interrupted story; 

I am enslaved, who dreamed of being free. 
Say for my soul, in life's dark purgatory, 

One little prayer, then cease to think of me. 

Forget, forget. 

I ask you not to pity or to pardon; 

I ask you to forget me. Tear my name 
From out your heart; the wound will heal and harden. 

Death does not dig so deep a grave as shame. 

Forget, forget. 



XLbvcc Wiomcn, ng 



Vlll. 

Roger's Letter to Mabel. 

Farewell ! I shall never again seek your side; 

I will stay with my sins and leave you with your 

pride. 
Let the swift flame of scorn dry the tears of regret, 
Shut me out of your life, lock the door and forget. 
I shall pass from your skies as a vagabond star 
Passes out of the great solar system afar 
Into blackness and gloom; while the heavens smile on, 
Scarce knowing the poor erring creature is gone. 
Say a prayer for the soul sunk in sinning; I die 
To you, and to all who have known me. Good-bye. 

MaheVs Letter to Maurice. 

I break through the silence of years, my old friend, 
To beg for a favor; oh, grant it ! I send 
Roger's letter in confidence to you, and ask, 
In the name of our sweet early friendship, a task, 
Which, however painful, I pray you perform. 
Poor Roger ! his bark is adrift in the storm. 



Zbxcc Momen. 



He has veered from the course; with no compass of faith 
To point to the harbor, he goes to his death. 
You are giving your talents and time, I am told, 
To aiding the poor; let this victim of gold 
Be included. His life has not learned self-control. 
And luxury stunted the growth of his soul. 
In blindness of spirit he took the wrong track, 
But he sees his great error and longs to come back. 
Oh, help me to reach him and save him, Maurice. 
My heart yearns to show him the infinite peace 
Found but in God's love. Let us pity, forgive 
And help him, dear friend, to seek Christ and to live 
In the light of His mercy. I know you will do 
What I ask, you were ever so loyal and true. 

Maurice to Mabel. 

Though bitter the task (why, your heart must well 

know), 
Your wish shall be ever my pleasure. I go 
On the search for the prodigal. Not for his sake, 
But because you have asked me, I willingly make 



Zbxcc Momem 121 



This effort to find him. Sometimes, I contend, 

It is kinder to let a soul speed to the end 

Of its swift downward course than to check it to-day, 

But to see it to-morrow pursue the same way. 

The man who could wantonly stray from your side 

Into folly and sin has abandoned all pride. 

There is little to hope from him. Yet, since his name 

Is the name you now bear, I will save him from 

shame, 
God permitting. To serve and obey you is still 
Held an honor, Madame, by Maurice Somerville. 

Maurice to Mabel Ten Days Later. 

The search for your husband is finished. Oh, pray 
Tear all love and all hope from your heart ere I say 
What I must say. The man has insulted your trust; 
He has dragged the most sacred of ties in the dust, 
And ruined the fame of a woman who wore, 
Until now, a good name. He has gone. Close the door 
Of your heart in his face if he seeks to come back. 
The sleuth hounds of justice were put on his track, 



122 XLbvcc Momen. 



And his life since he left you lies bare to my gaze. 

He sailed yesterday on the ''Paris." For days 

Preceding the journey he lived as the guest 

Of one Mrs. Zoe Travers, who comes from the West ! 

A widow, young, fair, well-connected. I hear 

He followed her back to New York from the Pier, 

And now he has taken the woman abroad. 

My letter sounds brutal and harsh. Would to God 

I might soften the facts in some measure; but no. 

In matters like this the one thing is to know 

The whole truth, and at once. Though the pain be 

intense 
It pulls less on the soul than the pangs of suspense. 
Like a surgeon of fate, with my pen for a knife, 
I cut out false hopes which endanger your life. 
Let the law, like a nurse, cleanse the wound — there 

is shame 
And disgrace for you now in the man's very name. 
Though justice is blindfolded, yet she can hear 
When the chink of gold dollars sounds close in her ear. 



^bree 'Momen. 123 



One needs but to give her this musical hint 
To save you the sight of your sorrows in print. 
Closed doors, private hearing; a sentence or two 
hi the journals; then dignified freedom for you. 
When love, truth and loyalty vanish, the tie 
Which binds man to woman is only a lie. 
Undo it! remember at all times I stand 
As a friend to rely on — a serf to command. 



Some women there are who would willingly barter 
A queen's diadem for the crown of a martyr. 
They want to be pitied, not envied. To know 
That the world feels compassion makes joy of their 

woe; 
And the keenest delight in their misery lies, 
If only their friends will look on with wet eyes. 

In fact, 'tis the prevalent weakness, I find, 
Of the sex. As a mass, women seem disinclined 
To be thought of as happy; they like you to feel 
That their bright smiling faces are masks which con- 
ceal 



124 Zbxcc llHomen. 



A dead hope in their hearts. The strange fancy clings 
To the mind of the world that the rarest of things — 
Contentment — is commonplace; and, that to shine 
As something superior, one must repine. 
Or seem to be hiding an ache in the breast. 
Yet the commonest thing in the world is unrest, 
If you want to be really unique, go along 
And act as if Fate had not done you a wrong, 
And declare you have had your deserts in this life. 

The part of the patient, neglected young wife 
Contained its attractions for Mabel Montrose. 
She was one of the women who live but to pose 
In the eyes of their friends; and she so loved her art 
That she really believed she was living the part. 
The suffering martyr who makes no complaint 
Was a role more important, by far, than the saint 
Or reformer. As first leading lady in grief, 
Her pride in herself found a certain relief. 

The ardent and love-selfish husband had not 

Been so dear to her heart, or so close to her thought, 



tTbrec TKflomen. 125 



As this weak, reckless sinner, who woke in her soul 
Its dominant wish — to reform and control. 

(How often, alas, the reformers of earth, 
If they studied their purpose, would find it had birth 
In this thirst to control; in the poor human passion 
The minds and the manners of others to fashion ! 

We sigh o'er the heathen, we weep o'er his woes, 
While forcing him into our creeds and our clothes. 
If he adds our diseases and vices as well. 
Still, at least we have guided him into our hell 
And away from his own heathen hades. The pleasure 
Derived from that thought but reformers can measure.) 

The thing Mabel Montrose loved best on this earth 

Was a sinner, and Roger but doubled his worth 

In her eyes when he wrote her that letter. And 

still 
When the last message came from Maurice Somer- 

ville 
And the bald, ugly facts, unsuspected, unguessed, 
Lay before her, the woman awoke in her breast, 



126 Zbxcc TKHomen, 



And the patient reformer gave way to the wife, 

Who was torn with resentment and jealousy's strife. 

Ah, jealousy! vain is the effort to prove 

Your right in the world as the offspring of love; 

For oftener far, you are spawned by a heart 

Where Cupid has never implanted a dart. 

Love knows you, indeed, for you serve in his train, 

But crowned like a monarch you royally reign 

Over souls wherein love is a stranger. 

No thought 
Came to Mabel Montrose that her own life was not 
Free from blame. (How few women, indeed, think of 

this 
When they grieve o'er the ruin of marital bliss!) 
She was shocked and indignant. Pain gave her 

a new 
Role to play without study; she missed in hei 

cue 
And played badly at first, was resentful and cried 
Against Fate for the blow it had dealt to her pride 



tTbtee 1imomert« 127 



(Though she called it her love), and declared her life 

blighted. 
It is one thing, of course, for a wife to be slighted 
For the average folly the world calls a sin, 
Such as races, clubs, games; when a woman steps in 
The matter assumes a new color, and Mabel, 
Who dearly loved sinners, at first seemed unable 
To pardon, or ask God to pardon, the crime 
Of her husband; an angry disgust for a time 
Drove all charity out of her heart. For a thief, 
For a forger, a murderer, even, her grief 
Had been mingled with pity and pardon; the one 
Thing she could not forgive was the thing he had 

done. 
It was wicked, indecent, and so unrefined. 
To the lure of the senses her nature was blind. 
And her mantle of charity never had been 
Wide enough to quite cover that one vulgar sin. 

In the letter she sent to Maurice, though she said 
Little more than her thanks for his kindness, he read 



128 tbree "Waomen. 



All her tense nervous feelings between its few lines. 
Though we study our words, the keen reader divines 
What we thought while we penned them; thought 

odors reveal 
What words not infrequently seek to conceal. 

Maurice read the grief, the resentment, the shame 
Which Mabel's heart held; to his own bosom came 
Stealing back, masked demurely as friendly regard, 
The hope of a lover — that hope long debarred. 
His letters grew frequent; their tone, dignified, 
Unselfish, and manly, appealed to her pride. 
Sweet sympathy mingled with praise in each line 
(As a gentle narcotic is stirred into wine), 
Soothed pain, stimul?ted self love, and restored her 
The pleasure of knowing the man still adored her. 

Understand, Mabel Montrose was not a coquette. 
She lacked all the arts of the temptress; and yet 
She was young, she was feminine; love to her 

mind 
Was extreme admiration; it pleased her to find 



ttbree Momen. 129 



^ 



She was still, to Maurice, an ideal. A woman 

Must be quite unselfish, almost superhuman, 

And full of strong sympathy, who, in her soul. 

Feels no wrench when she knows she has lost all 
control 

O'er the heart of a man who once loved her. 
Months passed, 

And Mabel accepted her burden at last 

And went back to her world and its duties. Her 
eyes 

Seemed to say when she looked at you, "please sym- 
pathize, 

On the slight graceful form or the beautiful face. 

Twas a sorrow of mind, not a sorrow of heart. 

And the two play a wholly dissimilar part 

In the life of a woman. 

Maurice Somerville 

Kept his place as good friend through sheer force of 
his will. 



130 Zbtcc Women, 



But his heart was in tumult; he longed for the time 
When, free once again from the legalized crime 
Of her ties, she might listen to all he would say. 
There was anguish, and doubt, and suspense in delay. 
Yet Mabel spoke never of freedom. At length 
He wrote her, "My will has exhausted its strength. 
Read the song I enclose; though my lips must be 

mute, 
The muse may at least improvise to her lute." 

Song. 

There was a bird as blithe as free, 

(Summer and sun and song) 
She sang by the shores of a laughing sea, 
And oh, but the world seemed fair to me, 

And the days were sweet and long. 

There was a hunter, a hunter bold, 

(Autumn and storm and sea) 
And he prisoned the bird in a cage of gold, 
And oh, but the world grew dark and cold, 

And the days were sad to me. 



^bree Momen. 131 



The hunter has gone; ah, what cares he? 

(Winter and wind and rain) 
And the caged bird pines for the air and the sea, 
And I long for the right to set her free 

To sing in the sun again. 

The hunter has gone with a sneer at fate, 

(Spring and the sea and the sun) 
Let the bird fly free to find her mate, 
Ere the year of love grow sere and late. 

Sweet ladye, my song is done. 

Mabel's Letter to Maurice. 

To the song of your muse I have listened. Oh, cease 
To think of me but as a friend, dear Maurice. 
Once a wife, a wife alway. I vowed from my heart, 
"For better, for worse, until death do us part.'* 
No mention was made in the service that day 
Of breaking my fetters if joy flew away. 
"For better, for worse," a vow lightly spoken, 
When Fate brings the "worse," how lightly 'tis 
broken ! 



132 Zbxcc lUIlomcn, 



The "worse," in my case, is the worst fate can give. 

Tho' I shrank from the blow, I must bear it and live, 

Not for self, but for duty; nor strive to evade 

Fulfilling the promise I willingly made. 

While Roger has sinned, and his sinning would be, 

In the eyes of the law, proof to render me free, 

It was God heard my vows and the Church sealed the 

bond. 
Until one of us passes to death's dim beyond. 
Though seas and though sins may divide us for life, 
We are bound to each other as husband and wife. 
In God's Court of Justice divorce is a word 
Which falls without import or meaning when heard; 
And the women who cast off old fetters that way, 
To give place to the new, on the great Judgment 

Day 
Must find, in the last summing up, that they stand 
Side by side, in God's eyes, with the Magdalene band. 
Dear Maurice, be my brother, my counselor, friend. 
We are lonely without you and Ruth, at Bay Bend. 



^bree Momen. 133 



Come sometimes and brighten our lives; put away 
The thoughts which are making you restless to- 
day 
And give me your strong noble friendship; indeed 
'Tis a friend that I crave, not a lover I need. 

Maurice to Mabel. 

You write like a woman, and one, it is plain, 
Whose sentiment hangs like a cloud o'er her brain. 
You gaze through a sort of traditional mist, 
And behold a mirage of God's laws which exist 
But in fancy, ^j God made but one law — it is love. 
A law for the earth, and the kingdoms above, 
A law for the woman, a law for the man, 
The base and the spire of His intricate plan 
Of existence. All evils the world ever saw 
Had birth in man's breaking away from this law. 
God cancels a marriage when love flies away. 
*'Till death do us part" should be altered to say, 
"Till disgust or indifference part us." I know 
You never loved Roger, my heart tells me so. 



134 Zbvcc XClcmen. 



He won you, I claim, throu<^h a mesmeric spell; 

You dreamed of an Eden, and wakened in hell. 

You pitied his weakness, you struggled to save him. 

He paid with a crime the devotion you gave him. 

And the blackest of insults relentlessly hurled 

At your poor patient heart in the gaze of the world. 

hi God's mighty ledger the stroke of a pen 

Has been drawn through your record of marriage. 

Though men 
Call you wedded I hold you are widowed. Why cling 
To the poor, empty, meaningless form of a thing — 
To the letter, devoid of all spirit ? God never 
hitended a woman to hopelessly sever 
Herself from all possible joy, or to make 
True faithfulness suffer for faithlessness' sake. 
When I think of your wrongs, when 1 think of my 

woes, 
That black word divorce like a bright planet glows 
hi the skies of the future. Oh, Mabel, be fair 
To yourself and to me. For the years of despair 



Ebrcc "WUomcn, 135 



I have suffered you owe me some recompense, surely. 

The heart that has worshipped so long and so purely 

Ought not to be slighted for mere sentiment. 

We must live as our century bids us. Its bent 

Is away from the worn ruts of thought. Where of old 

The life of a woman was run in the mold 

Of man's wishes and passions, to-day she is free; 

Free to think and to act; free to do and to be 

What she pleases. The poor, pining victim of fate 

And man's cruelty, long ago went out of date. 

In the mansion of Life there were some things askew. 

Which the strong hand of Progress has righted. The 

new, 
Better plan puts old notions of sex on the shelf. 
Who is true to a knave, is untrue to herself. 
Oh, be true to yourself, and have pity on one 
Who has long dwelt in shadow and pines for the sun. 
Love, starving on memories, begs for one taste 
Of sweet hope, ere the remnant of youth goes to 

waste. 



136 Zbxcc "Momcn, 



Mabel to Maurice. 

You write like a man who sees self as his goal. 
You speak of your woes — yet my travail of soul 
Seems mere sentiment to you. Maurice, pause and 

think 
Of the black, bitter potion life gave me to drink 
When I dreamed of love's nectar. Too fresh is the 

taste 
Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste 
To reach out for the cup that is proffered anew. 
A certain respect to my sorrows is due. 
1/ I am weary of love as men know it. The calm 
Of a sweet, tranquil friendship would act like a balm 
On the wounds of my heart; that platonic regard, 
Which we read of in books, or hear sung by the bard, 
But so seldom can fmd when we want it. 1 thought. 
For a time, you had conquered mere self, and had 

brought 
Such a friendship to comfort and rest me. But no, 
That dream, like full many another, must go. 



^bree llClomen* 137 



The love that is based on attraction of sex 

Is a love that has brought me but sorrow. Why 

vex 
My poor soul with the same thing again ? If you 

love 
With a higher emotion, you know how to prove 
And sustain the assertion by conduct. Maurice, 
Love must rise above passion, to infinite peace 
And serenity, ere it is love, to my mind. 
For the women of earth, in the ranks of mankind 
There are too many lovers and not enough friends. 
'Tis the friend who protects, 'tis the lover who rends. 
He who can be a friend while he would be a lover 
Is the rarest and greatest of souls to discover. 
Have I found, dear Maurice, such a treasure in you 1 
If not, I must say with this letter — adieu, i^ 

As he finished the letter there seemed but one phrase 
To the heart of the reader. It shone on his gaze 
Bright with promise and hope. " Too fresh is the taste 
Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste 



138 ZTbree Women. 



To reach out for the cup that is offered anew." 
" In such haste." Ah, how hope into certainty grew 
As he read and re-read that one sentence. *'Let fate 
Take the whole thing in charge, I can wait — I can 

wait. 
I have lived through the night; though the dawn may 

be gray 
And belated, it heralds the coming of day." 
So he talked with himself, and grew happy at last. 
The five hopeless years of his sorrow were cast 
Like a nightmare behind him. He walked once again 
With a joy in his personal life, among men. 
There seemed to be always a smile on his lip, 
For he felt like a man on the deck of a ship 
Who has sailed through strange seas with a mutinous 

crew. 
And now in the distance sights land just in view. 

The house at Bay Bend was re-opened. Once more, 
Where the waves of the Sound wash the New England 
shore, 



Zbvcc llClomen, 139 



Walked Maurice; and beside him, young hope, with 

the tip 
Of his fair rosy fingers pressed hard on his lip, 
Urging silence. If Mabel Montrose saw the boy 
With the pursed prudent mouth and the eyes full of joy 
She said nothing. Grave, dignified (Ah, but so fair!), 
There was naught in her modest and womanly air 
To feed or encourage such hope. Yet love grew 
Like an air plant, with only the night and the dew 
To sustain it; while Mabel rejoiced in the friend. 
Who, in spite of himself, had come back to Bay Bend, 
Yielding all to her wishes. Such people, alone, 
Who gracefully gave up their plans for her own, 
Were congenial to Mabel. Though looking the sweet. 
Fragile creature, with feminine virtues replete. 
Her nature was stubborn. Beneath that fair brow 
Lurked an obstinate purpose to make others bow 
To herself in small matters. She fully believed 
She was right, always right; and her friends were 

deceived, 



140 Zhxcc tuilomen. 



As a rule, into thinking the same; for her eyes 
Held a look of such innocent grief and surprise 
When her will was opposed, that one felt her misused, 
And retired from the field of dispute, self-accused. 

The days, like glad children, went hurrying out 
From the schoolhouse of time; months pursued the 

same route 
More sedately; a year, then two years, passed away, 
Yet hope, unimpaired, in the lover's heart lay. 
As a gem in the bed of a river might lie. 
Unharmed and unmoved while its waters ran by. 
His toil for the poor still continued, but not 
With that fervor of zeal which a dominant thought 
Lends to labor. Fair love gilded dreams filled his 

mind. 
While the corners were left for his suffering kind. 
He was sorry for sorrow; but love made him glad, 
And nothing in life now seemed hopeless or sad. 
His tete-a-tete visits with Mabel were rare; 
She ordered her life with such prudence and care 



Sbree 'Sinometi. 141 



Lest her white name be soiled by the gossips. And 

yet, 
Though his heart, like a steed checked too closely, 

would fret 
Sometimes at these creed-imposed fetters, he felt 
Keen delight in her nearness; in knowing she dwelt 
Within view of his high turret window. Each day 
Which gave him a glimpse of her, love laid away 
As a poem in life's precious folio. Night 
Held her face like a picture, dream-framed for his 

sight. 
So he fed on the crumbs from love's table, the while 
Fate sat looking on with a cynical smile. 



142 ZTbree Women. 



IX. 

SONGS FROM THE TURRET. 

I. 

In the day my thoughts are tender 

When I muse on my ladye fair. 
There is never one to offend her, 

For each is pure as a prayer. 
They float like spirits above her, 

About her and always near; 
And they scarce dare sigh that they love her, 

Because she would blush to hear. 

But in dreams my thoughts grow bolder; 

And close to my lips of fire, 
I reach out my arms and enfold her. 

My ladye, my heart's desire. 
And she who, in earthly places, 

Seems cold as the stars above. 
Unmasks in those fair dream spaces 

And gives me love for love. 



tlbree Momen. 143 



Oh day, with your thoughts of duty 

Cross over the sunset streams, 
And give me the night of beauty 

And love in the Land of Dreams. 
For there in the mystic, shady, 

Fair isle of the Slumber Sea, 
I read the heart of my ladye 

That here she hides from me. 



M 



10 



144 XLbxcc Momen. 



II. 

Some day, some beauteous day, 

Joy will come back again. 
Sorrow must fly away. 

Hope, on her harp will play 

The old inspiring strain 
Some day, some beauteous day. 

Through the long hours I say, 

"The night must fade and wane, 
Sorrow must fly away." 

The morn's bewildering ray 

Shall pierce the night of rain, 
Some day, some beauteous day. 

Autumn shall bloom like May, 

Delight shall spring from pain; 
Sorrow must fly away. 

Though on my life, grief's gray 
Bleak shadow long hath lain, 

Some day, some beauteous day, 
Sorrow must fly away. 



^brce IKIlomcn. 145 



III. 

When love is lost, the day sets toward the night. 
Albeit the morning sun may still be bright, 
And not one cloud ship sails across the sky. 
Yet from the places where it used to lie, 
Gone is the lustrous glory of the light. 

No splendor rests on any mountain height, 

No scene spreads fair, and beauteous, to the sight. 

All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye, 

When love is lost. 

Love lends to life its grandeur and its might, 
Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight. 
Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by, 
And grief's one happy thought is that we die. 
Ah ! what can recompense us for its flight, 

When love is lost. 



146 ^bree IKIlomen, 



IV. 

Life is a ponderous lesson book, and Fate 
The teacher. When I came to love's fair leaf 

My teacher turned the page and bade me wait. 
''Learn first," she said, 'Move's grief"; 

And o'er and o'er through many a long to-morrow 
She kept me conning that sad page of sorrow. 

Cruel the task; and yet it was not vain. 

Now the great book of life 1 know by heart, 
in that one lesson of love's loss and pain 

Fate doth the whole impart. 
For, by the depths of woe, the mind can measure 

The beauteous unsealed summits of love's pleasure. 

Now, with the book of life upon her knee, 
Fate sits ! the unread page of love's delight 

By her firm hand is half concealed from me, 
And half revealed to sight. 

Ah Fate! be kind! so well I learned love's sorrow, 
Give me its full delight to learn to-morrow. 



Zbxcc 'Momcn, 147 



If I were a rain drop, and you were a leaf, 
I would burst from the cloud above you 

And lie on your breast in a rapture of rest, 
And love you, love you, love you. 

If 1 were a brown bee, and you were a rose, 
I would fly to you, love, nor miss you; 

I would sip and sip from your nectared lip, 
And kiss you, kiss you, kiss you. 

If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook. 
Ah, what would I do then, think you? 

I would kneel by your bank, in the grasses dank. 
And drink you, drink you, drink you. 



148 Zbvcc Women. 



VI. 

Time owes me such a heavy debt, 
How can he ever make things right? 

For suns that with no promise set 
To help me greet the morning light, 

For dreams that no fruition met. 

For joys that passed from bud to blight, 

Time owes me such a heavy debt; 
How can he ever make things right? 

For passions balked, with strain and fret 
Of hopes delayed, or perished quite, 

For kisses that I did not get 

On many a love impelling night, 

Time owes me such a heavy debt; 
How can he ever make things right? 



Ebuee Momen. ' 149 



VII. 

As the king bird feeds on the heart of the bee, 
So would 1 feed on the sweets of thee. 

As the south wind kisses the leaf at will, 
From the leaf of thy lips I would drink my fill. 

As the sun pries into the heart of a rose, 

1 would pry in thy heart, and its thoughts disclose. 

As a dewdrop mirrors the loving sky, 
I would see myself in thy tear wet eye. 

As the deep night shelters the day in its arms, 
I would hide thee, dear, from the world's alarms. 



I50 ^bree Women. 



VIII. 

Now do I know how Paradise doth seem, 

Now do I know the deep red depths of hell. 

Swift from those fair supernal heights I fell 

To burning flames of hades, in a dream. 

Methought my ladye rested by a stream 

Which rippled through the verdure of a dell. 

She lay like Eve; dear God, I dare not tell 

Of her perfections; of the glow and gleam 

Of tinted flesh, and undulating hair, 

Of sudden thigh, and sweetly rounded breast. 

Then, like a cloud, he came, from God knows where. 

And on her eyes and mouth mad kisses pressed. 

I fell, and fell, through leagues of scorching space. 

And always saw his lips upon her face. 



^bree "Momen. 151 



IX. 

Love is the source of all supreme delight, 

Love is the bitter fountain of despair; 
Who follows Love shall stand upon the height, 

Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there. 

Courage needs he who would with bold Love fare, 
Let him set forth with all his strength bedight; 

Yet in his heart this song to banish care — 
"Love is the source of all supreme delight." 

And he must sing this song both day and night, 
Though he be led down shadowy pathways where 

Black waters moan, through valleys struck with blight, 
"Love is the bitter fountain of despair." 

Let him be brave, and bravely let him dare 
Whate'er betide, and feel no coward fright. 

Who shares the worst, the best deserves to share; 
Who follows Love shall stand upon the height. 

Ah! sweet is peace to those who faced the fight. 
And bright the crown those faithful ones shall wear, 



152 Zbxcc Momcn. 



Who whispered, when the shadows veiled their sight, 
" Yet through the darkest depths. Love, too, leads 
there." 

To hearts that best know Love, his dark is fair. 
His sorrow gladness, and his wrong is right. 

All joys lie waiting on his winding stair; 
All ways, all paths of Love lead to the light. 
Love is the source. 



Zbvcc momcn. 153 



X. 

My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, 
Wherein I gaze with silent yearning; 

Deep in their depths my future dwells. 

My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, 

But not one sign my fate foretells, 

While my poor heart with love is burning. 

My ladye's eyes are wishing wells. 
Wherein I gaze with silent yearning. 



154 ^bree Momen. 



XI. 

Three things my ladye seemeth like to me — 
She seems like moonlight on a waveless sea. 

And like the delicate fragrance, which exhales, 
When Day's warm garments brush the dewy vales. 

And when my heart grows weary of earth's sound, 
She seems like silence — restful and profound. 



Zbvcc iMomcn, 155 



XII. 

The moon flower, grown from a slip so slender, 

Has burst in a star bloom, full and white. 
The air is filled with a perfume tender, 

The breath that blows from that garden height. 

Yet moments lag that should take their flight 
On wings, like the wings of a homing dove,. 

And the world goes wrong where it should go right. 
For this is a night that is lost to love. 

Again, like a queen, who would rashly spend her 

Dower of wealth in a single night. 
The proud moon seems, on her track of splendor, 
. Enriching the world with her silver light. 

She flings on the crest of each billow a.bright 
Pure gem, from the casket of jewels above. 

But 1 sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight, 
"This is a night that is lost to love." 

Oh, I would that the moon might never wend her 
Way through the skies in royal might, 



156 tTbree Momen. 



Till the haughty heart of my lady surrender 
And the faithful love of a life requite. 
For the moon was made for a lover's delight; 

And grayer than gloom must its luster prove 
To the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight, 

"This is a night that is lost to love." 

L'Envoi. 

Fate, have pity upon my plight, 

And the heart of my lady to mercy move. 
For the saddest words that youth can write 

Are, "This is a night that is lost to love." 



^bree IBIlomen. ^57 



XIII. 

As the waves of the outgoing sea 

Leave the rocks and the drift wood bare, 

When your thoughts are for others than me, 
My heart is the strand of despair — 

Beloved, 
Where bleak suns glare. 

And Joy, like a desolate mourner, gropes 

In the wrecks of broken hopes. 

As the incoming waves of the sea, 
The rocks and the sandbar hide, 

When your thoughts flow back to me, 
My heart leaps up on the tide — 

Beloved, 
Where my glad hopes ride 

With joy at the wheel, and the sun above 

In a glorious sky of love. 



nS Cbrcc Ulcmcu, 



There w ;is a bard all in the oldeu time, 

Wlien bards were men to w horn the world gave ear, 
And song an art the great gods deemed sublime, 

Wlio sought to make his willful lady hear 
By weaving strange new melodies of rhyme, 

VNliich voiced his kne, his sorrow, and his fear. 

Sweetheart, my soul is heavy now with fear, 
Lest thou Shalt frown upon me for all time. 
Ah ! would that I had skill to wea\ e a rhyme 

Worthy to win the favor of thine ear. 

Tho' all the world were deaf, if thou didst hear 
And smile, my song would seem to me sublime. 

But ah ! too \-ast, too awful and sublime. 
Is my great passion, born of grief and tear, 
To clothe in verse. Wliy, if the world could hear 

And understand my love, then for all time. 
So long as there was sound or listening ear, 

All space would ring and echo with my rhyme. 



XLbxcc 'Waonicn. r^g 



Sticl) p.'ission sccfTis hclifflcd hy ;i rliyfTic 
It needs tlie voice of ii;iUire. 'I he snhliiiie, 

Loud thunder crash, th.it linrts llie stnrtled e;ir, 
And stirs tlie heart with awe, akin to fear, 
Tlie weird, wild winds of ec|uinr)ctial time; 

These voices tell my love, wouldst ttion hut liear 

And listening at the flood tides, thou miaht'st hear 
The love 1 bear thee sur^in^^ thrr)U|^di the rhyme 
Of breaking/ billows, many a moon full time. 
Why, 1 have heard thee call the sea sublime, 
When every wave but voiced the anguished fear 
Of my man's heart to thy unconscious ear. 

Vain, tfien, the hope that thou wilt lend thine ear 
To any sonf^^ of mine, or deign to hear 
My lays of longing or my strains of fear. 
Vain is the hope to weave for thee a rhyme, 
Or sweet or sad, or subtle or sublime, 
Which wins thy gracious favor for all time. 

Oh, cruel time! my lady will not hear, 

Though in her ear love sings a song sublime, 

And my sad rhyme ends, like my love, in fear. 
11 



Bright like tlie comforting blaze on the hearth, 
Sweet like the blooms on the young apple tree. 
Fragrant with promise of fruit yet to be 

Are the home-keeping maidens of earth. 

Better and greater than talent is worth, 
And where is the glory of brush or of pen 
Like the glory of mothers and molders of men — 

The home-keeping women of earth ? 

Crowned since the great solar system had birth, 
I 
They reign unsurpassed in their beautiful sphere. 

They are queens who can look in God's face without fear- 

The home-keeping women of earth. 



i6i 



Cbree Momen. 163 



X. 

A man whose mere name was submerged in the sea 

Of letters which followed it, B. A., M. D., 

And Minerva knows what else, held forth at Belle- 

vue 
On what he believed some discovery new 
In medical Science (though, mayhap, a truth 
That was old in Confucius' earliest youth). 
And a bevy of bright women students sat near, 
Absorbing his wisdom with eye and with ear. 

Close by, lay the corpse of a man, half in view. 
Dear shades of our dead and gone grandmamas ! you 
Whose modesty hung out red flags on each cheek, 
Danger signals — if some luckless boor chanced to 

speak 
The words 'Meg" or "liver" before you, I think 
Your gray ashes, even, would deepen to pink 
Should your ghost happen into a clinic or college 
Where your granddaughters congregate seeking for 
knowledge. 



i64 TZbvcc "UUlomen. 



Forced to listen to what they are eager to hear, 
No doubt you would fancy the world out of gear, 
And deem modesty dead, with last century belles 

Honored ghosts, you would err ! for true modesty 

dwells 
in the same breast with knowledge, and takes no 

offense. 
Truth never harmed anything yet but pretense. 

There are fashions in modesty; what in your time 

Had been deemed little less than an absolute crime 

In matters of dress, or behavior, to-day 

Is the custom. And however daring you may 

Deem our manners and modes, yet, were facts fully 

known, 
Our morals compare very well with your own. 

The women composing the class at Bellevue 
Were young — under thirty; some pleasing to view, 
Some plain. Roman features prevailed, with brown 

hair, 
But one was so feminine, soft eyed and fair 



Zbtcc Momen. 165 



That she seemed out of place in a clinic, as though 
A rose in a vegetable garden should grow. 
While her face was intelligent, none would avow 
That cold intellect dwelt on that fair oval brow. 
Or looked out of the depths of those golden gray 

eyes, 
The color of smoke against clear, sunny skies. 
'Twas a warm woman face, made for fireside nooks. 
Not a face to be bent over medical books. 
There was nothing aggressive in features or t(.rm; 
She was meant for still harbors, and not for the storm 
And the strife of rude waters. The swell of her breast 
Suggested love's sweet downy cushion of rest 
For the cheeks of fair children. Her plump little 

hands, 
Seemed fashioned for sewing small gussets and bands 
And fussing with laces and ribbons, instead 
Of cutting cold flesh and dissecting the dead. 
And yet, as a student she ranked with the first. 
But conscience, in labor once chosen, not thirst 



i66 Ebree Momen. 



For such knowledge, had spurred her to action. This 

day 
She seemed inattentive, her air was distrait, 
As if thought had slipped free of the bridle and rein 
And galloped away over memory's plain. 

It was true; it v/as strange, too, but there in the class, 
While the learned man was talking, her mind seemed 

to pass 
Out, away from the clinic, away from the town. 
To a New England midsummer garden close down 
By the salt water's edge; and she felt the wind blowing 
Among her loose locks as she leaned o'er her sewing. 
While the voice of a man stirred her heart into song. 
She was called from her dream by the clang of the 

gong 
Which foretells an arrival at Bellevue. The class 
Was dismissed for the day. In the hall, forced to pass 
By the stretcher (low brougham of misery), she 
Whom we know was Ruth Somerville, looked down 

to see 



XLbxcc IXHomen, 167 



The white, haggard face of the man whom her mind 
Had strayed off in a waking day vision to find 
But a moment before. 

The wild, passionate cry 
Which arose in her heart, was held back, nor passed by 
The white sentinels set on her lip. The serene, 
Lofty look which deep feeling controlled gives the 

mien 
Marked her air as she turned to the surgeon and 

said: 
"This man lying here, either dying or dead, 
Was a classmate, at Yale, of my brother's; my friend 
Is his wife. Let me stay by his side to the end, 
If the end has not come." 

It was Roger Montrose, 
Grown old with his sins and grown gaunt with his 

woes. 
Lying low in his manhood before her. 

His eyes 
Opened slowly; a wondering look of sui prise 



i68 ^bree Momen. 



Met the soft orbs above him. " Ruth — Ruth Somer- 

ville," 
He said feebly. *'Tell Mabel" — then sighed, and was 

still. 

But it was not the stillness of death. There was life 
In that turbulent heart yet; that heart torn with strife, 
Scarred with passion, and wracked by the pangs of 

remorse. 
"Death's swift leaden messenger missed in its course 
By the breadth of a hair," said the surgeon. " The ball 
Lies in there by the shoulder. His chances are small 
For a new start on earth. While a sober man might 
Hope to conquer grim Death in this hand-to-hand fight. 
Here old Alcohol stands as Death's second, fierce, cruel, 
And stronger than Life's one aid, skill, in the duel. 
You tell me the wife of this man is your friend? 
He was shot by a woman, who then made an end 
Of her own life. I hope it was not " "Oh, no — 

no, 
Not his wife," Ruth replied, "for he left her to go 



c:brce Wlomen. 169 



With this other, his victim — poor creature — they say 
She was good till she met him. Ah ! what a black way 
For love's rose scented path to lead down to, and end. 
God pity her, pity her." "Her, not your friend ? 
Not his wife.?" 

There was gentle reproof in the tone 
Of the staid old physician. Ruth's eyes met his own 
In brave, silent warfare; the blue and the gray 
Again faced each other in battle array. 

Ruth: 

I pity the woman who suffered. His wife 

Goes her way well contented. Love was in her life 

But an incident; while to this other, dear God, 

It was all; on what sharp, burning ploughshares she 

trod, 
Down what chasms she leaped, how she tossed the 

whole world, 
Like a dead rose, behind her, to lie and be whirled 
In the maelstrom of love for one moment. Ah, brief 
Is the rapture such souls find, and long is their grief. 



I/O Zbvcc Women. 



Black their sin, blurred their record, and scarlet their 

shame. 
And yet when I think of them, sorrow, not blame, 
Stirs my being. Blind passion is only the weed 
Of fair, beautiful love. Both are sprung from one 

seed; 
One grows wild, one is trained and directed. Condemn 
The hand that neglected — but ah! pity tkem. 

Surgeon: 

You speak with much feeling. But now, if the friends 

Of this man are to see him before his life ends, 

I recommend action on your part. His stay 

On this planet, I fear, will be finished to-day. 

A man who neglects and abuses his wife, 

Who gives her at best but the dregs of his life, 

In the hey day of health, when he's drained his last 

cup 
Has a fashion of wanting to settle things up. 
Craves forgiveness, and hopes with a few final tears 
To wash out the sins and the insults of years. 



^bree Momen. 171 



Call your friend; bid her hasten, lest lips that are dumb, 
Having wasted life's feast, shall refuse her death's 
crumb. 

Ruth: 

There are souls to whom crumbs are sufficient, at least 
They seem not to value love's opulent feast. 
They neglect, they ignore, they abuse, or destroy 
What to some poor starved life had been earth's rarest 

joy. 
'Tis a curious fact that love's banqueting table 
Full often is spread for the guest the least able 
To do the feast justice. The gods take delight 
In offering crusts to the starved appetite 
And rich fruits, to the sated or sickly. 

The eyes 
Of the surgeon were fixed on Ruth's face with a wise 
Knowing look in their depths, and he said to himself, 
"There's a mystery here which young Cupid, sly elf. 
Could account for. I judge by her voice and her face 
That the wife of this man holds no very warm place 



72 Zbxcc lixaomen. 



In Miss Somerville's heart, though she names her as 

friend. 
Ah, full many a drama has come to an end 
'Neath the walls of Bellevue, and the curtain will fall 
On one actor to-night; though the audience call. 
He will make no response, once he passes from view, 
For Death is the prompter who gives him the cue." 

The wisest minds err. When a clergyman tries 
To tell a man where he will go when he dies, 
Or when a physician makes bold to aver 
Just the length of a life here, both usually err. 
So it is not surprising that Roger, at dawn. 
Sat propped up by pillows, still haggard and wan, 
But seemingly stronger, and eager to tell 
His story to Ruth ere the death shadows fell. 

'' If I go before Mabel can reach me," he sighed, 
"Tell her this: that my heart was all hers when 

I died, 
Was all hers while I lived. Ah! I see how you start. 
But that other — God pity her — not with my heart, 



^bree IKflomen. 173 



But my sensual senses 1 loved her. The fire 
Of her glance blinded men to all things save desire. 
It called to the beast chained within us. Her lips 
Held the nectar that makes a man mad when he sips. 
Her touch was delirium. In the fierce joys 
Of her kisses there lurked the fell curse which de- 
stroys 
All such rapture — satiety. When passion dies, 
And the mind finds no pleasure, the spirit no ties 
To replace it, disgust digs its grave. Ay ! disgust 
Is ever the sexton who buries dead lust. 

When two people wander from virtue's straight track. 
One always grows weary and longs to go back. 
Well, 1 wearied. God knows how I struggled to hide 
The truth from the poor, erring soul at my side. 
And God knows how I hated my life when I first 
Found that passion's mad potion had palled on my 

thirst. 
Once false to my virtues, now false to my sin, 
I seemed less to myself than I ever had been. 



174 XLbtcc VSiomcn. 



We parted. This bullet hole here in my breast 

Proceeds with the story and tells you the rest. 

She smiled, 1 remember, in saying adieu: 

Then two swift, sharp reports — and 1 woke in Belle- 

vue 
With one ball in my breast. 

Ruth: 

And the other in hers. 
No more with wild sorrow that sad bosom stirs. 
She is dead, sir, the woman you led to her ruin. 

Ro^er: 

The woman led me. Ah ! not all the undoing 
In these matters lies at man's door. In the mind 
Of full many a so-called chaste woman we find 
Unchaste longings. The world heaps on man its 

abuse 
When he woos without wedding; yet women seduce 
And betray us; they lure us and lead us to shame; 
As they share in the sin, let them share in the 

blame. 



Ubree laomen. 175 



Ruth: 
Hush ! the woman is dead. 

Roger: 

And I dying. But truth 

Is not changed by the death of two people ! Oh, Ruth, 

Be just ere you judge me ! the death of my child 

Half unbalanced my reason; weak, wretched and 

wild 

With drink and with sorrows, the devil's own chance 

Flung me down by the side of a woman whose glance 

Was an opiate, lulling the conscience. I fell, 

With the woman who tempted me, down to dark hell. 

In the honey of sin hides the sting of the bee. 

The honey soon sated — the sting stayed with me. 

Like a damned soul I looked from my Hades, above 

To the world I had left, and I craved the pure love 

That but late had seemed cold, unresponsive. Her 

eyes, 

Mabel's eyes, shone in dreams from the far distant 

skies 
12 



^7^ Zhxcc momcn. 



Of the lost world of goodness and virtue. Like one 
Who is burning with thirst 'neath a hot desert sun, 
1 longed for her kiss, cool, reluctant, but pure. 
Ah! man's love for good women alone can endure, 
For virtue is God, the Eternal. The rest 
Is but chaos. The worst must give way to the best. 
Tell Mabel — Ruth, Ruth, she is here, oh thank God. 

She stood, like a violet sprung from the sod. 
By his bedside; pale, beautiful, dewy with tears. 
The spectre of death bridged the chasm of years: 
He sighed on her bosom. "Forgive, oh forgive!" 
She kissed his pale forehead and answered him : " Live, 
Live, my husband! oh plead with the angels to stay 
Until God, too, has pardoned your sins. Let us 
pray." 

Ruth slipped from the room all unnoticed. She 

seemed 
Like a sleeper who wakens and knows he has dreamed 
And is dazed with reality. On, as if led 
By some presence unseen, to the inn of the dead 



tibree ixaomcn. 



She passed swiftly; the pale silent guest whom she 

sought 
Lay alone on her narrow and unadorned cot. 
No hand had placed blossoms about her; no tear 
Of love or of sorrow had hallowed that bier. 
The desperate smile life had left on her face 
Death retained; but he touched, too, her brow with a 

grace 
And a radiance, subtle, mysterious. Under 
The half drooping lids lay a look of strange wonder, 
As if on the sight of those sorrowing eyes 
The unexplored country had dawned with surprise. 

The pure, living woman leaned over the dead. 
Lovely sinner, and kissed her. *'God rest you," she 

said. 
"Poor suffering soul, you were forged in that Source 
Where the lightnings are fashioned. Love guided, 

your force 
Would have been like a current of life giving joys, 
And not like the death dealing bolt which destroys. 



178 ^bree Momen. 



Oh, shame to the parents who dared give you birth, 

To live and to love and to suffer on earth, 

With the serious lessons of life unexplained. 

And your passionate nature untaught and untrained. 

You would not lie here in your youth and your beauty 

If your mother had known what was motherhood's 

duty. 
The age calls to woman, "Go, broaden your lives,'* 
While for lack of good mothers the Potter's Field 

thrives. 
But you, poor unfortunate, you shall not lie 
In that dust heap of death; while the summers roll by 
You shall sleep where green hillsides are kissed by 

the wave. 
And the soft hand of pity shall care for your grave. 



Xlbxcc momen. 179 



XI. 

Ruth's Letter to Maurice, Six Months Later. 

The springtime is here in our old home again, 
Which again you have left. Oh, most worthy of 

men. 
Why grieve for unworthiness? Why waste your life 
For a woman who never was meant for a wife? 
Mabel Lee has no love in her nature. Your heart 
Would have starved in her keeping. She plays her 

new part, 
As the faithful, forgiving, sweet spouse, with content. 
I think she is secretly glad Roger went 
Astray for a season. She stands up still higher 
On her pedestal, now, for Bay Bend to admire. 
She is pleased with herself. As for Roger, he trots 
Like a lamb in her wake, with the blemishing spots 
Of his sins washed away by the Church. Oh I seem 
To myself, in these days, like one waked from a dream 
To blessed reality. Off in the Bay 
I saw a fair snowy sailed ship yesterday. 



i8o ^bree Momen. 



The masts shone like gold, and the furrowed waves 

laughed, 
To be beat into foam by the beautiful craft. 
But close in the harbor I saw the ship lying; 
What seemed like the wings of a sea gull when 

flying, 
Were weather stained sheets; there were no masts of 

gold, 
And the craft was uncleanly, unseaworthy, old. 
Well, the man whom I loved, and loved vainly, and 

whom 
I fancied had shadowed my whole life with gloom. 
Has been shown to my sight like that ship in the Bay, 
And all my illusions have vanished away. 
The man is by nature weak, selfish, unstable. 
I think if some woman more loving than Mabel, 
More tender, more tactful, less painfully good. 
Had directed his home-life, perchance Roger would 
Have evolved his best self, that pure atom of God, 
Which lies deep in each heart like a seed in the sod. 



Zbtcc "Momcn, 



Tis the world's over-virtuous women, ofttimes, 
Who drive men of weak v/ill into sexual crimes. 
I pity him. (God knows I pity, each, all 
Of the poor striving souls who grope hlindly and fall 
By the wayside of life.) But the love which unbidden 
Crept into my heart, and was guarded and hidden 
For years, that has vanished. It passed like a breath. 
In the gray Autumn morning when Roger faced death, 
As he thought, and uncovered his heart to my sight. 
Like a corpse, resurrected and brought to the light, 
Which crumbles to ashes, the love of my youth 
Crumbled off into nothingness. Ah, it is truth; 
Love can die ! You may hold it is not the true thing, 
Not the genuine passion, which dies or takes wing; 
But the soil of the heart, like the soil of the earth. 
May, at varying times of the seasons, give birth 
To bluebells, and roses, and bright goldenrod. 
Each one is a gift from the garden of God, 
Though it dies when its season is over. Why cling 
To the withered dead stalk of the blossoms of spring 



i82 ^bree Momen. 



Through a lifetime, Maurice? It is stubbornness only, 
Not constancy, which makes full many lives lonely. 
They want their own way, and, like cross children, fling 
Back the gifts which, in place of the lost flowers of 

spring. 
Fate offers them. Life holds in store for you yet 
Better things, dear Maurice, than a dead violet, 
As it holds better things than dead daisies for me. 
To Roger Montrose, let us leave Mabel Lee, 
With our blessing. They seem to be happy; or she 
Seems content with herself and her province; while he 
Has the look of one who, overfed with emotion, 
Tries a diet of spiritual health-food, devotion. 
He is broken in strength, and his face has the hue 
Of a man to whom passion has bidden adieu. 
He has time now to worship his God and his wife. 
She seems better pleased with the dregs of his life 
Than she was with the bead of it. 

Well, let them make 
What they will of their future. Maurice, for my sake 



Zbxcc Momeiu 183 



And your own, put them out of your thoughts. All too 

brief 
And too broad is this life to be ruined by grief 
Over one human atom. Like mellowing rain, 
Which enriches the soil of the soul and the brain. 
Should the sorrow of youth be; and not like the 

breath 
Of the cyclone, which carries destruction and death. 
Come, Maurice, let philosophy lift you above 
The gloom and despair of unfortunate love. 
Sometimes, if we look a woe straight in the face, 
It loses its terrors and seems commonplace; 
While sorrow will follow and fmd if we roam. 
Come, help me to turn the old house into home. 
We have youth, health, and competence. Why should 

we go 
Out into God's world with long faces of woe.? 
Let our pleasures have speech, let our sorrows be 

dumb, 
Let us laugh at despair and contentment will come. 



r84 XLbvcc IMomcn, 



Let us teach earth's repiners to look through glad eyes, 

For the world needs the happy far more than the wise. 

I am one of the women whose talent and taste 

Lie in home-making. All else I do seems mere waste 

Of time and intention; but no woman can 

Make a house seem a home without aid of a man. 

He is sinew and bone, she is spirit and life. 

Until the veiled future shall bring you a wife, 

Me a mate (and both wait for us somewhere, dear 

brother), 
Let us bury old corpses and live for each other. 
You will write, and your great heart athrob through 

your pen 
Shall strengthen earth's weak ones with courage again. 
Where your epigrams fail, I will offer a pill. 
And doctor their bodies with "new woman" skili. 
(Once a wife, I will drop from my name the M. D. 
I hold it the truth that no woman can be 
An excellent wife and an excellent mother, 
And leave enough purpose and time for another 



Zbvcc 'Momen. 185 



Profession outside. And our sex was not made 

To jostle with men in the great marts of trade. 

The wage-earning women, who talk of their sphere, 

Have thrown the domestic machine out of gear. 

They point to their fast swelling ranks overjoyed; 

Forgetting the army of men unemployed. 

The banner of Feminine "Rights," when unfurled, 

Means a flag of distress to the rest of the world. 

And poor Cupid, depressed by such follies and crimes. 

Sits weeping, alone, in the Land of Hard Times. 

The world needs wise mothers, the world needs good 

wives. 
The world needs good homes, and yet woman strives 
To be everything else but domestic. God's plan 
Was for woman to rule the whole world, through 

a man. 
There is nothing a woman of sweetness and tact 
Can not do without personal effort or act. 
She needs but infuse lover, husband or son 
With her own subtle spirit, and lo! it is done. 



i86 ^brce Momcti, 



Though the man is unconscious, full oft, of the cause, 

And fancies himself the sole maker of laws. 

Well, let him. The cannon, no doubt, is the prouder 

For not knowing its noise is produced by the powder. 

Yet this is the law: U^ho can hue, can command.) 

But I wander too far from the subject in hand. 

Which is, your home coming. Make haste, dear; I 

find 
More need every day of your counseling mind. 
1 work well in harness, but poorly alone. 
Until that bright day when Fate brings us our own, 
Let us labor together. I see many ways. 
Many tasks, for the use of our talents and days. 
Your wisdom shall better the workingmen's lives, 
While I will look after their daughters and wives, 
And teach them to cook without waste; for, indeed. 
It is knowledge like this which the poor people need, 
Not the stuff taught in schools. You shall help them 

to think, 
While I show them what they can eat and can drink 



Zbvcc Wiomcn, 187 



With least cost, and most pleasure and benefit. Please 
Write me and say you will come, dear Maurice. 
Home, sister, and duty are all waiting here; 
Who keeps close to duty finds pleasure dwells near. 



XLbvcc 'Momen* 



XII. 

Maurice's Letter to Ruth: 

No, no. I have gambled with destiny twice, 

And have staked my whole hopes on a home; but the 

dice 
Thrown by Fate made me loser. Henceforward, 

I know 
My lot must be homeless. The gods will it so. 

I fought, I rebelled; I was bitter. I strove 

To outwit the great Cosmic Forces, above, 

Or beyond, or about us, who guide and control 

The course of all things from the moat to the soul. 

The river may envy the peace of the pond. 

But law drives it out to the ocean beyond. 

If it roars down abysses, or laughs through the land, 

It follows the way which the Forces have planned. 

So man is directed. His only the choice 

To help or to hinder — to weep or rejoice. 

But vain is refusal — and vain discontent. 

For at last he must walk in the way that was meant. 



tlbree Uaomen. 



My way leads through shadow, alone to the end 
I must work out my karma, and follow its trend. 
I must fulfill the purpose, whatever it be. 
And look not for peace till I merge in God's sea. 

Though bankrupt in joy, still my life has its gain; 
I have climbed the last round in the ladder of 

pain. 
There is nothing to dread. I have drained sorrow's 

cup 
And can laugh as I fling it at Fate bottom up. 

I have missed what I sought; yet I missed not the 

whole. 
The best part of love is in loving. My soul 
Is enriched by its prodigal gifts. Still, to give 
And to ask no return, is my lot while 1 live. 

Such love may be blindness, but where are love's 

eyes? 
Such love may be folly, love seldom is wise. 
Such love may be madness, was love ever sane.-* 
Such love must be sorrow, for all love is pain. 



igo ^bree Momen. 



Love goes where it must go, and in its own season. 
Love cannot be banished by will or by reason. 
Love gave back your freedom, it keeps me its slave. 
I shall walk in its fetters, unloved, to my grave. 

So be it. What right has the ant, in the dust, 
To cry that the world is all wrong, and unjust, 
Because the swift foot of a messenger trod 
Down the home, and the hopes, that were built in the 
sod.? 

What is man but an ant, in this universe scheme.? 
Though dear his ambition, and precious his dream, 
God's messengers speed all unseen on their way, 
And the plans of a lifetime go down in a day 

No matter. The aim of the Infinite mind, 

Which lies back of it all, must be great, must be 

kind. 
Can the ant or the man, though ingenious and wise. 
Swing the tides of the sea — set a star in the skies.? 

Can man fling a million of worlds into space, 
To whirl on their orbits with system and grace.? 



^bree Momen. 191 



Can he color a sunset, or create a seed, 

Or fashion one leaf of the commonest weed ? 

Can man summon daylight, or bid the night fall? 
Then how dare he question the Force which does 

all? 
Where so much is flawless, where so much is grand. 
All, all must be right, could our souls understand. 

Ah, man, the poor egotist ! Think with what pride 
He boasts his small knowledge of star and of tide. 
But when fortune fails him, or when a hope dies, 
The Maker of stars and of seas he denies ! 

I questioned, I doubted. But that is all past; 
I have learned the true secret of living at last. 
It is, to accept what Fate sends, and to know 
That the one thing God wishes of man— is to grow. 

Growth, growth out of self, back to him — the First 

Cause: 

Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws. 

Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these 

To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas ? 
13 



192 Zbxcc TlClomen. 



Does the star long to shine, when He tells it to set, 
As the heart would remember when told to forget? 
Does the sea moan for flood tide, when bid to be 

low. 
As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe? 

In the Antarctic regions a volcano glows, 
While low at its base lie the up-reaching snows. 
With patient persistence they steadily climb, 
And the flame will be quenched in the passage of 
time. 

My heart is the crater, my will is the snow, 
Which yet may extinguish its volcanic glow. 
When self is once conquered, the end comes to pain, 
And that is the goal which I seek to attain. 

I seek it in work, heaven planned, heaven sent; 
In the kingdom of toil waits the crown of content. 
Work, work! ah, how high and divine was its birth. 
When God, the first laborer, fashioned the earth. 

The world cries for workers; not toilers for pelf, 
But souls who have sought to eliminate self. 



tTbree Momen. 193 



Can the lame lead the race? Can the blind guide the 

blind? 
We must better ourselves ere we better our kind. 

There are wrongs to be righted; and first of them 

all, 
Is to lift up the leaners from Charity's thrall. 
Sweet, wisdomless Charity, sowing the seed 
Which it seeks to uproot, of dependence and need. 

For vain is the effort to give man content 
By clothing his body, by paying his rent. 
The garment re-tatters, the rent day recurs; 
Who seeks to serve God by such charity errs. 

Give light to the spirit, give strength to the mind, 
And the body soon cares for itself, you will fmd. 
First, faith in God's wisdom, then purpose and will. 
And, like mist before sunlight, shall vanish each ill 

To the far realm of Wisdom there lies a short way. 
To fmd it we need but the password — Obey. 
Obey like the acorn that falls to the sod, 
To rise, through the heart of the oak tree, to God. 



194 XLbxcc Momen. 



Though slow be the rising, and distant che goal, 
Serenity waits at the end for each soul. 
I seek it. Not backward, but onward I go, 
And since sorrow means growth, I will welcome my 
woe. 

In the ladder of lives we are given to climb, 
Each life counts for only a second of time. 
The one thing to do in the brief little space, 
Is to make the world glad that we ran in the race. 

No soul should be sad whom the Maker deemed woiui 
The great gift of song as its dower at birth. 
While I pass on my way, an invisible throng 
Breathes low in my ear the new note of a song. 

So I am not alone; for by night and by day 
These mystical messengers people my way. 
They bid me to hearken, they bid me be dumb 
And to wait for the true inspiration to come. 

THE END. 



3l)-77-9 



